


Time On My Hands (Should be Time Spent With You)

by Batwynn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop, Alternate Universe - Vampire, Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Blood Drinking, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Slow Build Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski, Spark Stiles Stilinski, Stiles Has Panic Attacks, Stiles Stilinski is Part of the Hale Pack, Vampire Stiles, Werewolf Gangsters, everyone is everything at once, interview with a vampire, mafia, or will be
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2017-12-12
Packaged: 2018-08-29 11:20:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8487400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batwynn/pseuds/Batwynn
Summary: Stiles Stilinski likes huge, sweet lattes, magic, and his work at the flower shop.After work, he swings by the butcher for some pig's blood, and settles in to watch Ironman with a straw. Oh, right. Stiles is also a vampire. [Somewhat based on Interview With a Vampire,  but with flowers, and gangs, and stuff.]





	1. Sweet as a Rose

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was written in about one night for the Summer Sterek Spectacle.   
> I might be updating with another chapter soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently going through and re-writing/editing this fic so chapters are being updated as of March 9th.

“So, shall we begin?”

 

The young man bows his head, as if to say ‘go on,’ and smirks. Danny finds it impossible to look away from his ageless face, with its disturbingly pale skin made a sickening gray color by the streetlights shining through the window. He can just make out a smattering of moles that as dark as the pits where his eyes should be.

Danny reminds himself to stop being such a Gothic poet, and taps his phone to locate the voice recorder. He really wishes the guy would let him turn on the lights. He’d feel more in control of things with the light on. As it is right now, the only thing he feels sure about is his role as the interviewer.

“So… what do you do?“ he asks, locating the application way too slowly. Danny hasn’t been this nervous since he sat down in front of one of the more current lords in Africa, and had to pretend absolutely nothing was wrong about the two children with semiautomatic rifles standing guard.

"I’m a vampire.”

This makes Danny pause, and laugh. He laughs because it’s ridiculous, or maybe because the hairs on the back of his neck have been standing on end since he followed the vampire—or rather, was followed to the alley way. Since the almost innocent-looking youth, who smiled just a little too sharply and who moved like a coiled spring, sat down across from him and stared. He stops laughing when the chair in front of him is suddenly empty, and the lights flicker on.

“What the fu—?!”

“We can’t begin this way; it’ll be easier with light,” the boy says as he returns to his chair, and Danny seriously disagrees. That face is—indescribable, and his eyes aren’t the dark holes he described before. They seem to sparkle, unnatural and dangerous. Like a predator, like a—

“Like a vampire?” a voice in the back of Danny’s mind whispers.

The stranger seems to appreciate Danny’s horror and confusion, but instead of commenting, he says, ”What I’m going to tell you is a love story about vampires and werewolves.”

“Wait, now there’s werewolves, too?”

“Hang on, no, it’s more and less than that.” The boy waves his hand in a grand flourish, not listening to a word Danny is saying. “This is a weird love story between a vampire and a werewolf, with a whole bunch of other stuff happening on the side.”

Well, that sort of answers that.

“See, I knew you were interesting,” Danny insists. “You really believe all this, don’t you?”

Across from him, the predatory grin grows a little wider.

“I’d like to tell you my story now, if you’ll shut up long enough.”

Danny swallows nervously, and gestures for him to go ahead.

“I won’t start at the beginning,” the vampire(?) says, tapping a long row of fingers against the table. “My childhood is barely even a memory at this point, and my introduction into the world of supernatural things happened during a… not-so-great period of time for anyone. It was kind of a boring 'second birth’, anyway.”

“Where would you like to start, then?”

The young man stops tapping his fingers, a hint of something crossing his features. It passes too quickly for Danny to pin down, and before he can question it, the vampire begins speaking again.

“I will start with him.”

“… Who?”

“William Penn.”

* * *

 

“There is nothing of which we are apt to be so lavish as of time, and about which we ought to be more solicitous, since without it we can do nothing in this World.”

Now there is a statement Stiles can get behind, unlike the guy who said it. Seriously, why was every rich white guy from the eighteenth century such dickhole? Penn wasn’t rude to anyone else during that meeting but Stiles, and talk about raising the moral bar so high only your rich, snobby nose can fit over it. You’d think people who spell out such accurate, poetic prose about time would make an effort to not be pompous pricks. Then again, when you’re rich, you’ve got all the time in the world to be a prick.

Stiles is not rich. He might be a prick, but that depends on the day and his mood. It’s also not the 1700’s anymore, so not-rich Stiles buys his 44th scratch ticket to celebrate his birthday a day late. It’s sort of become a tradition since 1970’s: buy some sort of birthday dinner—maybe a little pig’s blood—get a sparkler or something because fire is fun, and buy a scratch ticket. Of course, as per tradition, Stiles never actually wins anything on it.

“You’d think that once—one time in 400 years—I’d win something. Anything!”

All the wrong numbers glare up at him, saying, “Tough luck, you scrawny bastard.”

Also, he’s assigning voices to inanimate things again, which is never a good sign. He thought he got over that in the 60’s.

Hissing profanities under his breath—because that’s healthy and normal—Stiles tosses the $20 ticket into the trash, and ducks down the nearest alleyway. If he’s going to get home before the blood gets cold, he’ll need to take some evasive measures. Partly to save time, obviously, but mostly to avoid the werewolf problem.

* * *

 

“The werewolf problem?” Danny interrupts.

“Yes, the werewolf problem, you heard that correctly.”

“And William Penn… is a vampire too?”

“What? No. Stay with me.” 

* * *

 

One might say that Beacon Hills has an infestation, of sorts. A hairy, toothy, growly, annoying infestation. Sadly, there are no exterminators willing to take down an entire town of werewolves. Not that Stiles wants them taken out. No. He’s not the type to get ecstatic about mass-genocide, like the Alpha pack one town over. The one that likes to randomly attack Beacon Hills, laughing and shouting happily through the streets with, like, blood and bits of people hanging off of them. They’re nuts, more like coyotes than wolves, honestly.

So, to avoid the local pack’s attention, Stiles can’t leave his house without slathering himself in some nasty body spray called Axe or Punch, or whatever’s manly enough to smother human-male insecurities. And why must he smell like a freshly-flowered Lumberjack? Because werewolves can smell the dead, and Stiles sure as hell ain’t living anymore. Hasn’t been for a looooong time.

He’s forced to hide that tiny factoid about himself, because werewolves really, really don’t like vampires. For whatever reason that Stiles doesn’t know because he wasn’t there when the 'Great War’ started between their two stupid species. Some blah-blah-dee-blah you killed my sister! and blah-dee-blah-blah you slept with my cousin’s brother; then killed him!

It was super high school romance-murder stuff, apparently, so whatever. Stiles really doesn’t get why that should dictate where he lives in 2016. Beacon Hills is nice, mostly secluded, got some woods over there, got a movie theater, a mall, a magic shop that’s not completely useless—and let’s not forget the butcher shop that caters to supernatural tummy rumblings. He doesn’t even have to make up an excuse; seriously, he just walks in with that hungry glint in his eye, and the guys asks, “cow or pig?”…

* * *

 

“Why only cow or pig?”

The boy in the chair scowled. “Apparently, he didn’t do chicken blood anymore because of some sort of magic-user bylaw, or something. Stop interrupting.”

“I’m sorry. Sorry…"

* * *

 

So, yeah, a few years back, Stiles chose Beacon Hills as home, and now he’s got a nice little apartment over a book store, he’s made a few human friends, and even the sheriff seems to have taken a liking to him. Their friendship is a little strained, probably because Stiles has seen the framed picture on the man’s desk, and the kid in it could have very well been Stiles a few hundred years ago. Apparently he has a lot in common with the sheriff’s son, with being dead and all.

Back to his post-birthday scratch ticket loser blues.

Or whatever that is that just sent all those trash cans scattering around the alley in front of him.

“That better be a cat, or I’m going to be pissed and probably scream,” he warns. “Super loud. High pitched even. You’ll regret coming near me instantly.”

Said thing suddenly looms, and it’s not a cat. Unless a cat is a good six feet tall, sporting red, glowing eyes, and likes to growl.

“Right… So, screaming now.”

The not-cat doesn’t even let him finish taking a deep breath before it’s barreling towards him at full speed ahead. Stiles gets out a single, strangled shriek before he goes down under the hulking—ugh, stinking—mass.

“Get—get off!” He snarls, struggling to not die, and trying to catch the beast’s gaze long enough to force his will upon it. It doesn’t always work, but if Stiles is feeling willful enough, he can usually convince people that he’s not there. Or, you know, not a very good werewolf snack.

Too bad the wolf won’t meet his eye. It’s painfully obvious, now that he’s up close and personal with the thing’s foaming mouth, that the werewolf is out of its mind. The problem is, he can’t risk blowing his cover by firing off a quick spell, and the thing is getting closer to his face, and holy shit Stiles wishes someone would put it out of its misery for him.

If wishes were horses…

There’s a growl.

A different growl, from another direction, and Stiles is 300% done with today because that better not be another goddamn werewolf. He’s having enough trouble digging his nails into this one to keep it off of him. No bitey, thanks.

Suffice to say, werewolf bites for vampires are bad. Deadly bad. Supremely not good.

“Hold still!” Someone—possibly the other growler—commands. Which… hah! Nope.

“It won't—dammit! I said hold still!” the stupid person barks again.

“If I hold still, I’ll die!” Stiles yells back, wincing as the wolf presses in harder. The movement rips some of his nails right off his fingers, which, ow, but also fuckshitdammit. Humans don’t grow those back so easily, which means Stiles is going to have to make up some excuse to the stupid shouting-human-or-werewolf when this is all said and done, and fuck his life, why did he move here again?

Movie theatre?

Woods?

Fuck that.

The wolf above him is gone before Stiles can really get into the whole 'fuck everything’ internal rant he was building up to. One second, it’s frothing all over his face, the next there’s a hint of stars above him. Stars and maybe Saturn? Is that Saturn this time of year? Maybe he should check out the—

“Hey!” The voice yells, soon joined by a lop-sided, very much hairy-werewolfy face. “Are you okay? Did it bite you?”

“Uh.”

“Oh dude, you’re bleeding,” Uneven Face notices, a wary expression forming. “Is it a bite or a scratch?”

Stiles considers saying he was bitten, if only to write off his super 'healing’ weirdness as werewolf. But, he knows werewolves better than that. They’d try to bring him into their pack, like a new adopted family member you never knew you wanted. Or a pet you didn’t want, but now that it’s in your home, eating all your food, you can’t really get it to leave. Plus, what would the neighbors say?

“I’m fine. It’s just a little damage I did to myself there,” he explains, accepting the help up. He looks down at himself, ready to dust off rabid-wolf foam, dirt, maybe a little… blood.

Holy shit, no wonder the guy thinks he’s dying. Stiles is covered in blood. It’s friggen’ everywhere! How is it even—Oh.

“Right, so, funny story,” he begins, eyes darting around to find the container. “Yeah, that’s not my blood.”

The werewolf looks even more confused, and Stiles almost flinches the second he sees those nostrils flaring. Does he have enough smelly stuff on? Is his story going to work? Is this his final day on this earth? Is that such a bad thing?  
  
Wait, shut up emo voice. No one asked you.

“It’s pig’s blood,” Stiles adds, in case the werewolf nose hadn’t come to the same conclusion. He takes a deep breath so he can launch into this long story about reenacting Carrie with some buddies and how this is all a hilarious mistake, what are the chances I run into werewolves on the day of my daughter’s… prom?

But the wolf goes and ruins it by asking, “Are you sure you’re alright? You smell kind of sick…”

“Dude, that’s super invasive.” Because it is, Stiles has a right to say so, vampire or not.

The guy, at least, looks genuinely apologetic when he realizes what he just did, and goes all puppy-foot shuffle. “Sorry, it’s just—it’s habit. When I’m with my Pack.”

“Well, I’m not in your pack,” Stiles snaps.  

“R-right… Well… I mean—wait, you know about us? You do, you said—you know about us,” he insists, as though convincing himself that he didn’t just totally blab about werewolf things to a perfect stranger. Tension is growing again, because knowing is a big no-no considering most 'normal’ humans don’t know about the werewolves, and any second now this guy is going to start getting more suspicious and sniffly at him, and that’s just not cool.

So Stiles blurts out, “I’m a witch,” and then proceeds to slap both hands over his face in disbelief. What… a useless, fucking… thing. Why did he say that?  He peeks past his fingers, to find a bemused expression forming on the other man’s face.

“A Spark, sorry, yes,” Stiles continues. “That’s why… I know… about you. And blood. The blood. The not-mine blood that’s everywhere—it’s pig’s blood. You can probably smell that, though, so I didn’t have to point it out, and yeah.”

Well, as stupid as he sounds, he seems to be doing something right. Because the werewolf looks genuinely relieved, and almost maybe too cheerful at the news. Which is unusual, but not unwelcome.

The fun part of lying to werewolves is where the lie blends with truth. Stiles was a Spark, back when he was alive, which means that it’s not a complete lie, it’s a partial truth. Technically you can’t be a Spark once you’re dead, but with a little help, Stiles still has some tricks up his sleeve. Literally—he’s got conduit tattoos up his arms to channel the Spark instead of using the life force that he doesn’t have anymore. Which he would have used against rabid wolf, if he wasn’t trying to stay below werewolf radar and continue pretending he’s Average Joe Human.

Hah. So much for that.

“That’s cool,” the guy says, being down-right chipper about the whole thing. “I’m sorry you got jumped like that; we’ve been chasing him for a week now. You actually kind of saved the day here, dude.“

Stiles may or may not have puffed up a little. He’s never saved the day before! He’s allowed to puff up with pride.

"Well, if you ever need someone to get in the way again, I’m a professional rabid-wolf tripper,” he replies, flashing the guy a shit-eating grin.

* * *

 

“See, it’s a kind of an inside joke with Vampires to flash your normal teeth at werewolves. Like, ‘Hah, stupid mutts, sense my vampire teeth now, bitches!’’

“I… see.”

“It’s funnier when you’re a vampire. Anyway—“

* * *

 

The werewolf doesn’t sense his hidden teeth. Surprise.

He does offer a card, though, which is kind of weird and also awkward because Stiles is still very much covered in pig’s blood and his finger nails are only half-grown back, and it’s one of those really nice business cards with the embossing and stuff. After another awkward minute or wiping his hands on the cleanest area of his jeans, and subtly checking his nails to see if they’re at least passable, Stiles finally takes the card and tucks it into his pocket without reading it.

“Uh, thanks for the save, I think.” He clears his throat, and quickly adds, “and the card. I guess I’ll see you around?”

“Right—oh! I’m Scott, by the way,” the wolf babbles, reaching a hand out before remembering that Stiles is still pretty gross and taking his hand back. Stiles accepts the excuse not to shake Scott’s hand, as nice as the dude is. With just the right grip and the wolf would notice his lack of pulse pretty quickly.

“Nice to run into you,” Stiles replies politely. “I’m uh—”

For two seconds, he considers giving a fake name.

Consideration #1: They’ll know my real name and look into me and find me and my apartment won’t be safe oh my god they’ll go there and scent it and they’ll figure out that I’m dead. I should tell him my name is Fergus—shit, wait, that’s the guy on Supernatural sorta maybe obvious I’m not really a Fergus anyway so maybe—

Consideration #2: He literally knows my face and part of my scent. A fake name isn’t going to do shit in keeping you safe, you moron.

Right, so.

“Stiles.”

Scott frowns, his eyes flicking down to Stiles’ chest for a second  like there’s something that’s supposed to happen there that’s not—oh fuck. Oh shit.

Heartbeat. Lack thereof. Stupid werewolf lie detectors.

“Alrighty!” Stiles nearly shrieks, totally casual like. “Well, I gotta go! This blood is caking in places blood should not cake,” he continues, backing away. Cheerfully backing away. "And I’m pretty sure the entire Beacon Hills’ fly population has its eye on me in the most uncomfortable ways, so, yeah! I’m gonna bail now. Nice meeting you!”

Scott is obviously confused, but at least his attention is on the words coming out of Stiles’ mouth, instead of the steady lack of anything coming from his chest.

“Ok, I’ll see you around… Stiles?” he says, his lips twitching at the name.

“Totally strange nickname, I know, but trust me when I say that it’s better than my real name.”

Scott’s smile widens. “Which is?”

“Probably a curse word in hell,” Stiles shoots back, already a good ten paces away from the wolf. He offers one last wave before unceremoniously speed-walking away.

It’s not until he around the corner that he hears a quiet, “Bye? I guess?”

Stiles deems this the most awkward moment in his entire not-life.

* * *

 

A common misconception about vampires: They can’t go out during the day.

* * *

 

‘Wait—‘

‘Oh please don’t start.’

‘But how?’

‘Seriously? Okay, so say we couldn’t go out during the day, why would we be able at night? There’s still the moon, which is reflecting—oh my gosh, wait for it—sunlight! Granted, there’s less intensity, but it’s still sunlight. Unless we only went out on cloudy nights and during the new moon, which would make us vampires literally the most useless 'dark creatures’ in the entire supernatural world. Wouldn’t we still turn into little piles of ash?’

‘I suppose that makes sense. I just—you’re sounding less pompous now.’

'Oh no, it’s the only night in the past two weeks that vampires can come out! Better watch out!’

‘I guess we’re going to ignore that.’

‘Seriously, vampires would be weak and shitty and probably die out a million years ago.’

‘I’m just going to let you talk.’

* * *

 

To be fair, though, Stiles did spend the first ten years of his freshly made vampire life hiding during the day and only coming out at night. Even when he was 'born’, it was known to humans that that was how vampires worked. So, he believed it, and it wasn’t until he met a random vampire dude named Jackson and was laughed at—loudly and publicly—that he found out the truth.

Vampires love the sun. It’s the only time they get to feel warm again, which is a feeling you come to miss pretty quickly once you’re cold and dead. In fact, one way humans could spot a vampire—if they were in the know—is by looking for the one person standing there for twenty minutes with their face turned up towards the sun like a cat. They have been known to literally move across a room to follow the movement of the sun. Seriously, cats and vampires have a lot of shared habits.

So, yeah, Stiles lives for the daytime. He tries to spend as much time as he can out in sun, which is why he took over the managing job at the town’s only flower shop in the first place. (The bookstore wasn’t hiring and it was too much of a cliché, anyway.) That, and the steady clutter of smells and pollen around him helps mask his dead stench in a much more natural way than slathering himself in chemically produced Manly-ness. Alright, and because, as it turns out, he’s the best damn floral designer in Beacon Hills. Whatever.

The day after his run-in with the werewolves, Stiles comes into work with a large frozen mocha as a well earned pick-me up. Caffeine, he’s discovered, is his only friend other than blood, and he makes very good use of it after stressful situations like last night.

His morning starts with the usual donning of his dark green work-apron, several calls that need call-backs, and a dozen Lupins to arrange. He’s feeling pretty good at this point, especially after the sixty minute shower he took last night to remove all the pig’s blood from his person, and after a little research into replicating a heart beat so he’ll never be caught off guard again. He still hasn’t figured that one out yet, but he’s got the sun beating down on his back through the greenhouse windows. It’s warm, and pleasant, and the flowers are actually working with him today. All is right in the world.

Seriously, it’s like he’s done something to deserve good luck or something. Nothing goes wrong, even when a town werewolf comes in to pick up his super-clever Lupin bouquet for his pregnant wife, who’s mad at him for having a little too much fun at his bachelor party last week, and who is apparently the alpha in the relationship and quite possibly about to rip his furry balls off. (His own words.)

That’s not even the best part of entire exchange though, it’s actually the exact moment a look of horror forms on the dude’s face when he realizes he just outed the entire werewolf community to a random flower shop guy without blinking an eye. It’s totally worth it to watch him flounder around for a pathetic explanation before Stiles puts him out of his misery by assuring him that he already knew, Jesus, stop looking like you’re about to piss all over the floor and take your irony-laden apology flowers home before your alpha breaks you in half.

Suffice to say, it’s one of those rare good day things he’s heard so much about.

Which is why the inevitable shit-hitting-the-fan isn’t actually a surprise.

First, it’s the hunger. He never got to eat his birthday dinner last night, which is something he typically fasts for and actually kind of needs. To, you know, function like a human being. It’s been two weeks since he last ate, and he’s seriously berating himself for not going back out to get more blood. But, if he had, the butcher probably wouldn’t have sold it to him anyway. Two pints of blood in one night and a lame excuse about spilling the first one after a run-in with a bunch of werewolves? Suspicious behavior is answered with a firm glare and a menacing looking butcher knife. So, no, he didn’t get his fix last night, and caffeine only goes so far.

His hands start shaking first, then his legs, and an eye gets twitchy about twenty minutes after that. It’s all very Bond Villain, which would be cool if he wasn’t dropping flowers and vases and feeling like he’s going to loose his mind any second now. Thank god Brandon wasn’t working with him today, Stiles could barely stand the guy on a good day.

Struggling to complete tomorrow’s emergency wedding order, Stiles drags a stool over to his work table before his legs give out. The headache started ten minutes ago, which makes all the flowers look swimmy and gross while he’s trying to work. The delicate Lilly of the Valley he’s been trying to manipulate into the same shape as all the other bouquets is already starting to wilt from all the mishandling, and the small plume of fern meant to accent the entire thing was practically crushed the moment he got his hands on it.

His brain started being helpful by chanting: BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD THAT LILLY HAS GONE YELLOW BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD!

It’s no good, once he reaches this point. It’s either eat something, or basic human inhibitions go right out the window.

Which is how people get bitten.

And, you know, die.

Stiles flips the sign to closed, locks the door, and starts off towards the back, tearing his apron off as fast as he can. He should have bought something on his way in, something other than a Mocha—Jesus Christ he has to be insane to think he’d be fine skipping a meal. Holy shit someone is going to die—he’s going to kill someone oh god. He can’t think. He can't–He—

"Hello?”

Stiles bites back a really girly scream as he spins around to find that fucking crooked-jaw werewolf dude peering into the shop’s window.  
  
Scott, his brain provides. Also BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD CAN’T BITE HIM WOLF TASTES GROSS BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD!

“Shit,“ he breathes, covering his mouth in horror. His teeth are starting to grow longer, and any second now his eyes are going to start their vampire light show.

"I can hear you in there, dude!” the Scott calls out. Through the class, Stiles can see his smile, which might be a 'Hey, I’m-happy-to-be-here’ smile, or a 'I followed your dead-ass scent here, and I’m-about-to-rip-your-barely-functioning-bowels-out-of-your-body’ kind of smile.

Either one isn’t exactly welcome right now, considering Stiles’ state.

Stiles waves.

“Can I come in?”

“We’re closed,” Stiles says, very official-like.

Scott nods, not dropping his smile. “I saw the sign, but I wanted to talk to you about last night.”

“W-what’s there to talk about?” Stiles stammers, inching closer to the door because he’s stupid. Scott just seems so nice. “Rabid wolf-dude Bad. You Good. Me take really long shower.”

“Well, the card I gave you is kind of super… er… exclusive?”

What? The card? Shit, Stiles completely forgot about the card. Which was in his jeans pocket when he—

“Oh god, it’s in the laundry,” he groans, covering his face.

“You put our card in the laundry?”

“Not on purpose!”

“Okay, but, you… you do know who I am, right?” the guy asks, sounding a little concerned.  
  
Stiles looks up from his face-palm, and narrows his eyes at him. Through all the dizzying blood-lust wiggly shit his eyes are doing right now, he sees the same crooked-faced werewolf he met last night, wearing a pretty nice suit that doesn’t really suit him. Which is… weird, but not completely unheard of. Werewolf got no taste, it’s a shame, not a travesty.

“You’re Scott,” he states. Stupidly. He needs blood. Now.

“Scott McCall.”

Stiles frowns. “Ooo-kay?”

“Of the Hale pack?”

Shit.

Stiles scrambles forward to open the door, praying to the god of Mochas that he smells enough like coffee and flowers, that his blood-lust will just please chill out long enough to not be killed, that accidentally washing their card isn’t some kind of grave insult to the pack, and to maybe bless Stiles with a heart beat because shit’s about to get weird if Scotty here tries to listen for lies.

Shaking, Stiles ushers him into the shop and ignores his tattoos as they start to burn all along his arm. They’re supposed to warn him when he’s in close proximity to a werewolf—which, yes, he’s aware, thanks for tuning in ten minutes too late.  
  
“I’m super sorry for my rudeness and if I’d, like, paid attention for ten seconds last night, I would have totally know who you are right away. But I was kinda’ covered in blood and it smelled sort of delic—gross so a shower was needed and so I—“

Scott laughs, and puts a hand up. “Dude, calm down. I’m not some kind of Agent of Death or whatever. I just wanted to see if you were interested.”

Stiles freezes mid-freak out. “Interested in what?”

“Joining our pack.”  
  
—BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD OH SHIT YOU’RE GONNA DIE NOW BOY BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD—

“I—what?” Stiles squeaks, wishing he’d kept his apron on after all. At least the pockets gave him somewhere to hide his shaking hands. There’s nowhere to hide his fucking idiot face, though.

How the hell had he not noticed what the card was? The Card. Everyone who’s anyone knows what it means to get The Card from any werewolf anywhere. It means you’ve been invited to meet the Alpha, which usually means the pack has some kind of interest in you.

Not the, ‘We want you dead’ kind of interest; that doesn’t usually start with polite business cards. What it usually means is people get brought to the Alpha, they have a nice chat about what the pack wants from you, and what you can gain from the pack, and it’s all very nice and wonderful except Stiles is currently—

—BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOOOOOOD BLOOD BLOOD—

Yeah, not a great time to be forced to meet the Alpha of any pack, never mind the infamous ‘I will kill everything that stands in my way’ Alpha Hale. Also, Scott might have just said something, and he totally wasn’t listening. Rude Vampire is rude.

“I—uh—what did you say?”

“Are you alright?” Scott asks, obviously forgoing any sort of common curtesy and sniffing at him again. Stiles tries not to screech this time.

“I’m having an off day,” he replies sharply, and no, he’s not lying— but that doesn’t change the fact that he has no god-damn heartbeat so you better not listen in. “Look, can we schedule this for another time? I was just about to head home early and… rest.”

Scott, thankfully, was raised better than Stiles originally thought, and backs off far enough that the burning sensation up and down his arms lessens to a tingle.

“Sure thing,” the wolf says, ducking his head apologetically. “I’m sorry for, um, appearing here out of the blue when you had no idea what was going on. I’ll send another invite along tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

“What? Where? Here? You can send it here,” Stiles babbles.

“Of course, yeah. I mean, we don’t know where you live yet, so, yeah.”

Stiles ignores the ‘yet’, and dares to ask, “How did you know to find me here, by the way?”

“Oh, um…”

Fuck, Stiles was right after all. “You followed my scent… That’s not cool, dude.”

If Scott could look any guiltier, he’d pop some wolf ears and start whimpering. At least he’s sort of honest, which is more than Stiles can say for himself, anyway. He’s not enough of a prick to drive that hypocritical knife home and start giving him actual shit for—

—BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD—

Jesus, shut up. I’m aware.

He needs the werewolf gone. Now.

“Alright, anyway… Thanks for dropping by in a slightly creepy stalker-ish way,” he tries again, silently begging the wolf to leave. His teeth are starting to ache, which mean pretty soon he is seriously going to lose his shit. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Right, yeah. I mean, it might not be me tomorrow,” Scott explains with yet another apologetic smile as he shuffles towards the door. “If not me, then it’ll probably be Issac, so, don’t freak out if—why won’t this open?”

“What?” Stiles blinks at him for a stupidly long moment while the werewolf tugs at the door handle. He can’t even process why the door won’t open until he remembers that, duh, the 'We’re Closed’ sign is swinging and this werewolf is not the brightest spoon in the drawer. It’s amazing, almost like there’s one brain cell between them. “I locked it… because we’re closed… So, just turn the—yep, you got it.”

“Thanks,” Scott murmurs, cheeks tinged pink as he tries to slide through the door all cool-like. He stumbles. The stealthy effect has long since been ruined. Stiles snorts.

“Your werewolf grace is really winning me over to this whole pack thing,” he jokes, wincing slightly when his teeth brush against his lips.

“I’m better when I haven’t completely embarrassed myself three times over,” Scott replies through the door, and with one last wave, scampers off down the street.

Stiles waits, and breathes.

1… 2… 3… 4…—BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD BLOOD RIP TEAR EAT—

He barely even notices the sounding the bell as the door opens again, nor the panicked voice of a soon-to-be husband asking about the wedding bouquets, or the happy, but terrified eyes that beg Stiles to put all his flower-related worries to rest.

He notices the beat of his heart, the rush of blood, food on legs. Food.

The man doesn’t scream when Stiles rips his throat out, and puts all his worries—flower-related and more—to rest.

* * *

 

Danny’s head rocks back, his hand raised in either a ‘stop’ gesture, or a warding one. “Wait… You murdered him?”

“I ate him.”

“So, you murdered a random man. In the flower shop.”

“Did I not mention the whole thing about losing all humanity when we get hungry, or did you just miss that?”

“I’m sorry, I’m just trying to process the fact that you dropped a casual murder into your otherwise charming little story here.”

“…”

“…"

“Can I continue, or…?“

“Jesus—fine. Yes. Go on.”

* * *

 

It’s a very good thing the flower shop floor is tiled, with a nice drainage system, and a hose for spraying down little bits of flowers and stems that pile up during the course of a day. Or, you know, whatever blood Stiles missed during his ‘meal’.

There’s also the small saw Stiles bought a month ago, for the thicker stemmed plants they have to deal with.  
  
Over all, he does a good job making the man disappear, and officially closes up shop only an hour later.

It’s not until he’s home, safely tucked away in his shoddy two-room apartment, that he remembers he’s still got one major issue to deal with.

A meeting with one of the most dangerous Alphas in the country, and little old him without a heartbeat.  

* * *

 

 

The first spell doesn’t work. It really doesn’t work, like there’s pounding drums all around him and chanting, and Stiles thinks he maybe hears them getting closer.

So, yeah, he shuts that down nice and quick, and makes sure to leave a neon-pink sticky note on the spell, reading:

“Do not use, unless you want to be haunted by the song of someone’s people.”

The second spell is a obviously a prank, and he actually gets a good laugh out of it before the owner of the bookstore starts banging a broom in their ceiling, yelling at him to turn it down.

“Tell-tale heart?” More like “drop the bass”.  

It’s the third one—third time’s the charm, right?—that has to work. He probably has all the right ingredients, and maybe a few substitutes. Basil and mint are really close, probably.

It’s the blood he’s worried about. Blood spells are dark spells, which is a great big DUH, but it’s all to often forgotten by Sparks and witches and whoever else is casting stuff these days.

Do you ever wonder what drives a man to eat the faces off his victims? Is it humanity gone wrong, or something more? Something nasty, and old, that gets drawn up by each little delve into the dark. Each blood spell cast is another blotch on your soul, if you believe in souls. And you should, because every murderous psychopath, every blank-faced politician who looks the poor and needy in the eye as they take away their rights, every empty person bumbling around causing mindless, endless harm to others is proof that humanity is what’s in the soul. Because without one, they are nothing but madness; cruelty incarnate. They are not human.

Which, all right, Stiles isn’t human anymore anyway, but he’d like to keep what’s left of his human-brain as blotch free as possible, thank you very much. But he’d also like to keep on 'living’ for a little while longer. He likes the flower shop, the book store, the preserve, the movie theater, the sheriff, the nice nurse lady who always asks how he’s doing as they pass each other on their quests for coffee. He likes Beacon Hills, which means he needs to not be a vampire.

Since no one’s cured that yet, a blood spell is his only other option.

Stiles takes a few moments to center himself, minus the deep breathing and meditation techniques he used to utilize when he was alive.

Shit, one more thing he’ll have to fake. Breathing. Breathing is… he stopped doing it years ago, back when he realized that he could go out during the day, and that silver jewelry is fucking evil.

Stiles practices breathing, while tossing in basil, ten chicken hearts, a kid’s Disney Frozen watch to represent 'time passing’ or whatever, a cat’s paw that he did not ask questions about, and lastly… the blood.

He’s sad to see it go, all the warm red stuff that he’d just obtained earlier today. But the spell calls for a lot of it, so, off it goes.

Bye, blood.

Hello, stain on my soul.

"Cor sex, contraxit.”

The blood becomes smooth as a mirror in the bowl, and Stiles forces himself to swallow his nerves and continue.

“Temporis, iterum me. Sanguinis, ossis, terra—” There’s some spooky shaking going on now. “—cor meum in regeneratione.“

Stiles waits, not holding his breath, because he forgot to take one. The shaking’s stopped, which is good because the last thing he wants is Angry Bookstore Guy to come up here when he’s standing around bleeding and chanting at a bowlful of bloody crap.

He waits.

And waits.

And then tosses the entire bowl and its contents into a trash bag, because obviously that was junk and basil does not replace mint.

Stiles goes to bed cold, disappointed, and without a heartbeat.

* * *

 

Morning comes with a general discomfort around his chest area, and the same itching need to feed again. He’ll need to pick up another pint from the butcher later, if his adventure into the den of wolves doesn’t end in death. Which it probably will, since the damn wolves can’t seem to stop themselves from being invasive little jerks.

Thump-thump!

"Wahdlo?” He slurs, patting at his chest to get the whatever thing on his chest off of it. Only, nothing seems to be on top of him, and there’s that thumping again.

Thump-thump!

Pause.

Thump-thump!

Stiles shoots out of bed, 100% awake now and scrambling to get a hand where he can feel where his heart used to be.

There. It’s there, in his chest, a little sluggish, but definitely a heartbeat.

Stiles shouts, “Sweet fucking potato sack togs!” And dances around like a complete idiot before bothering to check the time and realize that he’s an hour late for work.

For the first time in forever, Stiles’ heart races from the run across town, and it feels friggen’ awesome.

—

“So, you made it work? You fooled the werewolves?”

“Yes, I made it work, no, I didn’t fool the werewolves.”

“Oh? You’re still standing, though. I guess it wasn’t as bad as you thought.”

The vampire just laughs.

* * *

 

“Come with me.”

"Uh, well, I just got here and I haven’t even popped out for a mocha yet, so—“

"We’re already a half hour late,” The curly-haired demon child of the corn interrupts.

“That’s less than an hour, though, so if I could just—“

"You don’t make the Alpha wait.”

All that heartbeat induced joy is starting to wear off now, and a coffee would really help him get through this ordeal, and this baby-face of a man is still somehow managing to look threatening and unmoved in the face of his caffeine-less plight. It doesn’t help that the false-cherub had appeared at the glass door without warning and had scared the shit out of him not moments before. 

Stiles casts one last sad look around his super-clean shop, and sighs, “Fine, let’s go.”

The blindfold is expected, the nose plugs not so much.

“Do I sound like a Loony Toon?” he asks, trying not to giggle when, yes, he does.

“Quiet.”

“I mean, I guess I understand why you’d want to plug the noses of your more canine guests, but my sense of smell is probably on par with a smoker of 40 years.”

The hit to his head is kind of expected, but still rude.

* * *

 

“He smells.”

“He works in a flower shop,” Scott replies, just as the blindfold is tugged from his head. Stiles is met with a goofy grin, which is really sweet and all but there’s, like, six other angry looking people glaring at him. Five of them are werewolves, that much Stiles can tell, and the one standing in the far left is sort of nothing. There’s nothing there to sense, which is creepy, but not that uncommon for an emissary or pack witch. Stiles squints at him in the doom-and-gloom of the room, trying to discern any tattoos that might give away his craft. The high-collared-robe-shirt thing he has on, however, gives nothing away.

“Your name is Stiles?” one of the wolves asks, obviously trying for polite but coming across as perfectly miffed. He’s only a half hour late, God.

Stiles turns his attention to the older, dirty-blonde wolf standing next to —next to… holy shit, scary eyebrowed Alpha.

“Um… It’s a nickname,” he mutters, glancing away before he meets the Alpha’s gaze. There’s only three thousand reasons not to look into an Alpha’s eyes, one being the possibility of them sensing his vampire will voodoo, and the other is the fact that it’s super against the rules to stare an Alpha down. Everyone knows that, even loser vampires who weren’t around for the war.

  
“What is your full name?” the same guy asks, so Stiles sort of looks at his shoulder. He’s not Alpha, but Stiles still won’t risk it. He also isn’t about to give out his full name.

“It’s just Stiles, nothing more.”

  
“He’s smarter than he looks,” someone comments.

  
“Hey! Not everyone knows about the power of names,” Stiles argues, adjusting his sweatshirt and dusting off invisible dust. He purposefully chose casual wear to push that 'innocent human’ look, and also maybe to make a bad joke.

  
He wore his red hoodie, after all.

  
“And yet, you wear the most potent of scents when you knew you were going to meet our Alpha today,” the (obviously second in command guy in a v-neck) points out. He makes an unnecessary tsking sound, and turns to whisper something in the glaring Alpha’s ear.

  
Stiles risks a glance at him, and isn’t surprised to find that the guy is built like a brick shit-house,  and is wearing a rather nice dress shirt that does rather nice things over some very nice muscles. His eyes are also glowing red, which isn’t a good sign and Stiles is going to die right now, isn’t he?

At least his heart is racing, like it should be.

V-neck-wolf starts talking again. “You live here, in Beacon hills?”

  
“Uh, yeah. Yep.”

  
“Where?”

  
“None of your business?” Stiles blurts, then quickly amends, “Yet. None of your business yet. Also, I’d like to know who i’m talking to so I don’t accidentally call you V-neck-wolf out loud.”

  
The Alpha huffs, and Scott hisses something under his breath, his cheeks going pink like he’s embarrassed for the both of them. Which, okay, so maybe Stiles should know the names of the Hale pack like most people do, but all he knows are what people say about the pack. They tell stories, and drop names here and there that mean nothing when there’s no face to connect them to.

Stiles is really starting to regret agreeing to meet. That’s a lie, he regretted it before he even said 'yes’, but it’s not like he really had a choice, anyway. The Alpha summons: you hop, skip, and jump to do what they say. Not that the Alpha has said anything, yet.

  
“My name is not important at this moment,” V-neck begins, his resting bitch face even more pinched. “Scott you know, however. Isaac, who brought you to us today.”

  
The curly haired werewolf nods to Stiles. Whatever, still Child of the Corn.

  
“Boyd and Erica are over there,” he continues, nodding to the grumpy looking betas on the right, before offering a grand gesture to the eyebrow king. “And, of course, Alpha Derek Hale.”

Stiles does the polite thing, and nods to the betas equally. To the Alpha, he sort of ducks his head and silently prays.

  
He doesn’t miss the fact that the robed man standing to the far left is also not introduced. If his palms could sweat, they would be.

  
Then, Alpha Hale speaks.

  
“So, 'Spark’, you won’t tell us your name, or where you live. You wear a heavy scent that has nothing to do with the flowers you work with.”

  
Stiles feels his heart stutter. It’s a scary feeling. Everything is scary right now. The Alpha is scary, the dude standing in the corner that smells and looks and feels like nothing, the god damn red curtains on all the windows. Stiles hates it, it’s smothering him, he’s dying. He’s actually dying. He’s—

—

“You said this was a love story, didn’t you?” Danny inquires suddenly.

“Oh yeah, this is definitely a love story.”

“O-kay…”

The vampire flashes an easy grin and flutters a hand at him. “Just hold on, the irony is so good it’s disgusting.”

“Alright, no more interruptions, I promise.”

The look he gets reads very plainly of doubt.

* * *

 

—going to die, he can feel it. Every single inked line crawling across his body is burning with warning, the crow on his back has shifted to his chest at some point in the last ten minutes, and any second now his eyes are going to react to the danger. He’s going to give it all way, they’re going to know.

“Deaton, do it,” orders the Alpha.

Stiles’ eyes dart to the nothing-man—Deaton, why does that name sound so familiar?—just as he raises up his hands and opens them. Marbles—thousands of marbles come pouring out of his hands in some impossible trick of physics. The sound they make as they bounce and scatter on the stone floor is harsh in the perfect silence of his audience.  
  
Because that’s what they are, the spectators to his embarrassing battle against nature.

Because there’s thousands of marbles rolling towards him, surrounding him, spreading out into the shadows of the room, and Stiles’ day-old heart stutters and stops for a moment.

“Oh my god, you suck,” he whimpers, and falls to his knees to start counting.

“No, I’m pretty sure that’s what you do, vampire.”

Stiles can hear the smirk in the Alpha’s voice while he reaches his 45th marble. Fucking Derek fucking Hale. Bad-joke making, eyebrow monster Alpha of Beacon Hills, who apparently knows one of the oldest vampire stories in the world.  
  
“Spill a sack of grain at night,” Alpha Hale recites.

Stiles grits his teeth as no-longer-smiling Scott curls his claws around his arms, and yanks him up from his growing pile of marbles. 54. He got to 54 marbles.

“Keep them counting till first light,” he finishes, looking the Alpha right in the eye.

The werewolf’s smile is unfriendly, as he leans back in his stupid fancy chair, and says, “Nice to meet you at last, our mysterious vampire of Beacon Hills.”

Stiles finds himself wondering where those 400 years went as the blindfold is lowered back over his eyes, and the nose plugs are shoved back in.

Something pinches at his neck—a needle—this is it. It’s over.

It’s over now, and all he can think is that he should have done more, been more.

He always just assumed he’d have more time.


	2. Unsavory Conditions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever heard of the phrase, "Out of the frying pan, into the fire?" 
> 
> Yeah, that's applicable here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently going through and re-writing/editing this fic so chapters are being updated as of March 9th.

 

"Well... I mean, you're obviously not dead. Dead-dead."

"Obviously," the vampire agrees.

Danny narrows his eyes at him, unimpressed.

"So?" Danny breaks the silence, "What's with the dramatic pause?"

"Someone once told me that nothing in story-telling is quite as powerful as a dramatic pause."

"That someone being?"

"Someone very annoying."

"Uh huh. Well that explains why you would take their advice.”

The vampire answers with a laugh that dies too quickly to be sincere, and sets Danny's teeth on edge. "He's the reason I am able to sit here with you today, actually."

"What was his advice?"

"To lie better."

 

* * *

 

Stiles wakes up in a glass box.

At first, his brand new heart beat goes crazy, because the box too small to move in, the lights are too bright, he's lost his clothes somewhere, and the last thing he remembers was a bunch of pissed off werewolves surrounding him.

So, he panics, he screams to be let out, he punches and kicks at the box until his knuckles split open and smear the last of his stolen blood around the glass. By the time he's done freaking out, Stiles feels too worn down to care how naked and gross he looks when someone enters the room and comes to a stop beside his box. Why should he care about offending his kidnapper's sensibilities?

"Wow, you really went nuts in there."

Stiles glares at the crooked-jawed asshole werewolf who tricked him into this mess—who, he notes, is no longer all friendly smiles and innocent shuffling. Oh no, he's stiff and bitter, stalking around their clever little prison like a fucking hunter. Stiles is a complete and utter idiot for falling for his little act. Scott is just another monster, and it has nothing to do with the werewolf side of him.

"Deaton said the marbles would work," Scott continues, glaring at Stiles like it's his fault. "And I really didn't think it would be true."

"What?" Stiles croaks. "The counting thing?"

"That you're a monster."

Huh, it'd be funny if it wasn't so goddamn infuriating. Stiles sneers with his perfectly blunt human teeth, and enjoys the little flinch he gets in response.

"Nice sack of sanctimonious bullshit you're carrying around with you," he muses. "Kidnaping, abusing, and imprisoning an innocent person just because they like math... doesn't that seem to fit the bill a little better?"

Scott scoffs, and crouches down to snarl at him, "'Innocent'? You killed someone in your shop just yesterday."

Okay, Stiles wasn't expecting that little tidbit of information to come into play. He wasn't even aware that they knew that, never mind how they found out. Unless... they went snooping around his flower shop after he closed up last night. Which means he can get them on breaking and entering too, if he could actually legally get anything to stick on a gang of werewolves who practically own this town, and the law enforcement that "protects" both.

And, yes, alright, Stiles isn't as innocent as he pretends to be. He's killed a few humans in his day, but it's never been something he sought out or enjoyed. That should be a defining feature of his condition. He's not a psychopath. Maybe.

At least he's not claiming to be any less monstrous than these assholes, and when he fucks up, it's not kidnapping and possible murder with, you know, intent.

"That was an accident," he protests. "I didn't plan that."

"Oh really? So the guy just slipped and fell onto your teeth?"

"Wow, no, my life isn't a song in Chicago. But it was an accident." Stiles narrows his eyes at him. "Actually, that's all on you."

Scott blinks, and huffs out a startled laugh, "Excuse me?"

"You heard me, puppy pal—" he ignores the snarl. "If you and your little play date didn't come crashing into my life and spill all my pig's blood, I wouldn't have lost my shit and eaten that guy."

"What do you mean—"

" _And_  you never took into consideration how hard it is to fight the urge. Have you ever had an craving like that? A hunger? Do you guys get, like, a super intense need for squirrels or something?" He gets a steady glare in response. "No? Then you can't judge me for that shit until you feel it yourself. I was literally, seriously losing my mind while you were standing there pretending to be cute while you invite me to your stupid pack."

For some reason, that's what Scott reacts to. Sharply, like Stiles just slapped his mother. "I wasn't—it wasn't fake, I really was inviting you."

"Uh huh," Stiles scoffs, gesturing to his grimy glass box. "And I guess this is the VIP guest suite?"

"Well, you did kind of turn out to be a vampire."

"That's speciest."

"That's—what?" Scott sputters.

Stiles jabs a finger at him through the glass. "You heard me. You're a species-racist."

"That's not even a thing!"

"Says the guy tricking people into coming to their stupid, creepy lair and locking them up in a glass cage because of their species."

"You murdered an innocent man!"

"Only because you couldn't be responsible for your own crazy werewolf!" Stiles shouts. "He would still be alive if you hadn't ruined my birthday!"

"What the fuck does this have to do with your birthday?!" Scott yells back.

"I was starving, okay?!" Stiles hates that his voice cracks, that his anger simmers into something colder, more controlled. Hot rage is better, it gets things done, keeps you going—fighting. Everything else is pain, and Stiles doesn't do well with pain.

"I was starving, dammit... you don't understand..."

Scott stands, scowling down at him with the worst look of distain flickering across his features, and Stiles just has to look away. Of course, starvation means nothing to anyone when his food is people.

The blood he smeared across the glass has dried into a strange pattern of sticky-brown in front of his face. Stiles remembers, faintly, how disgusted he would have been back when he was human. How, in the early days, his first few tastes of blood were often followed by a lot vomiting and crying.

 

* * *

 

"Wha—why?"Danny interrupts.

"Let's just say..." The vampire pauses, tapping his chin with one slender finger. "I had an unpleasant 'master' and maybe a tiny phobia of blood that he knew all about before he turned me."

"That's... that's, uh, bad."

"He lived for dramatic irony right up until his end." He shrugs. "A lot more changed in me over the years, than it did for him."

 

* * *

 

400 years of living a mostly quiet not-life, with a few wars here or there, and this is how it ends.

Sure, there were moments where Stiles was forced into violent confrontations, but for the most part, Stiles floated through his second life with as little obstruction or destruction as possible. He's been good, sort of. He doesn't fucking deserve this bullshit, that's for sure. There's a million other vampires out there who have done worse than him, who 100% deserve to be stripped naked and locked in a Tupperware box. Hell, Stiles knows a few of them who'd personally welcome the challenge.

But no, it's him who's caught up in this ridiculous mess. All because he didn't look both ways before crossing a dark alleyway. Because he trusted a fucking smile over years of werewolves murdering his kind.

Above him, Scott mutters something under his breath, then stomps out of the room before Stiles can even think of a parting remark. It's too late; he's already worn himself out and lost what little blood he had left from that guy. The longer he's in here, the more lethargic he will become. At least, until the hunger takes over.

But Stiles refuses to let that happen.

After a few minutes of listening carefully for Scott's return, Stiles lets the claws ease back into his nail bed. He can't help it; he's seriously afraid. Stiles has lived in Beacon Hills for barely a blip in his supernatural lifetime, and the stories they tell of the Hale pack are ten times more frightening than almost anything he's previously experienced. And that's including two stints in two separate wars. (Granted, he stayed on the fringes.)

It takes another hour of nothing at all happening for Stiles to get less afraid and more bored. He's never done very well with lengthy silences or the inability to move, so a coffin-sized box and a bright, empty room really aren't doing it for him.

"Hello?"

He waits, tensing up in case someone scary like the alpha comes along instead of stupid Crooked-Jaw.

Nothing. Shit, even the scary alpha would be better than this.

"Alright, you've had your chance," he warns the empty room. "You should have started torturing me before. All is fair in love and war, y'know."

And with that, he starts to sing.

 

* * *

 

"You didn't."

"I did."

"That's—what did you sing?"

The vampire smirks. "Oh, a little bit of everything."

* * *

 

"—My loneliness is killing meeeee—and I—" Stiles gasps dramatically. "I must confess, I still believe!"

Something crashes down the hallway.

"When I'm not with you I lose my miiiind!" He bellows over the sound of approaching feet, "GIVE ME A SIIIIIIGN!"

"Shut. UP!"

Stiles decides the next line would just be tempting fate, and flashes Derek-Mr. Alpha a shit-eating grin instead. Said alpha is standing there growling, claws out and teeth very sharp and menacing. It's actually all kinds of terrifying, but Stiles doesn't let that stop him.

"Oh, hello there neighbor," he chirps, waving cheerily from his box. "Not that this isn't a fantastic example of boring someone to death, but do you have any plans to, I don't know, do something? Anything?"

Alpha Hale snorts indelicately, and sheaths the claws. "You're the first to sound eager to be killed."

"Whoa, back up," Stiles blurts out, putting his hands up. "I never said anything about being murdered. I just wanted to know if there was some plan here, and if maybe we could talk about this?"

"There is nothing to talk about."

"Uh, I think—" Stiles clears his throat and tries not to think about why it feels so dry. "I think maybe there is? Like, maybe there's been a little mix up and—"

"No," Derek rudely interrupts.

"Okay, but seriously. I'm not the vampire you're looking for."

"No."

"'No' what?!"

Derek flashes his teeth again, this time in a grin. It's dickish. Not charming at all. 

"Oh come oooon," Stiles groans. "I thought that of all creatures big and small, werewolves would understand us better than anyone."

Something shifts in the alpha, and Stiles is sent scrambling backwards into the glass wall behind him in a pathetic attempt to get away from the advancing werewolf.

"I will never understand your kind!" he spits. "You're scum—parasites."

"O-or we could live in a symbiotic—"

The laugh that tears itself out of Alpha Hale is sharp and bitter. He's obviously of the camp 'Hate All Vampires', for whatever personal-related reasons, which means Stiles is ultra fucked no matter what he does. He can't bargain with a man who doesn't want anything from him, and he can't defend himself when the simple act of existing is his so-called crime. What do you do in the face of pure hatred?

He's going to die.

Stiles' little sputtering heart spasms in his chest, and the dull ache of his tattoos reacting to the wolf's presence kicks up to a steady burn.

He's going to die. Going to be murdered by a werewolf.

"I didn't—I didn't do anything," he insists, hating the way his voice cracks and the feral grin that spreads across Alpha Hale's face.

"I can hear you lying." he almost sounds overjoyed about this, until his own words seem to sink in. "How can I hear you lying?"

Like Stiles fucking knows?

The alpha couches down by his glass case, and leans over to get a better look. Stiles, in all his terror, tries to make himself as small as possible. He doesn't know where the latch on his cage is, but he has a feeling one punch at this glass, and those claws would get him.

"I can hear your heart beating."

Stiles blinks up at him owlishly. "Ok?"

"If you're... vampires don't have heartbeats," the alpha continues, brow furrowing sharply. "How is this possible? You smell like a blood creature, you suffer the compulsion to count."

"Uh, well, see... it's complicated."

"Un-complicate it."

Stiles winces when Hale slips into Alpha Voice, his words clawing their way into his chest. You don't have to be pack to feel the pressure, the urge to follow any command they make. In fact, if Stiles had been more vampire and less Spark, he would probably be completely under his thumb. For all their strength of mind, vampires have a horrible tendency to fall in line when someone more powerful than them commands it.

So, being the stubborn Spark that he is, Stiles decides the alpha is going to have to work for this information.

"I'm not telling."

Alpha Hale grinds his teeth above him and, yep, the claws at back again. "Tell me, now."

"How about you let me out of this spacious box and give me my clothes back," Stiles says, ticking things off on his fingers. "Get me some pig's blood, and then, maybe I'll tell you why I have a heartbeat."

The claws are scratching lines into the glass. Jesus Christ.

"No."

"We're back to monosyllables I see."

"No blood."

Stiles frowns, considering his options. If the Alpha is actually willing to let him out—and give his clothes back—that's surely worth his measly little secret. The blood, though, that's going to be a problem.

"You have human pack members," Stiles remembers. "I smelled them."

The alpha's eyes start to go red. "You will not touch them!"

Stiles puts his hands up, and sputters, "No! No, I mean, yes, I won't touch them. Not... intentionally." Hale growls again. "Seriously, just keep them away from me. Can you do that? Please?" 

Hale sits up again, and honest-to-god tilts his head to one side.

"Please?" he asks again. "I don't want to hurt them. I'd never want to do that to anyone. But, you know, I kind of can't control it when i'm hungry."

"You're hungry?" The alpha's nostrils flair in the usual rude manner of fucking werewolves. Never ask if you can sniff someone, just shove your snout right into their personal scent business.

"I'm running on fumes here," Stiles admits, not wanting to use any words that might trigger more claws and threats. "I, uh, I didn't eat for a few weeks, and then my heart beat started and—"

"It started beating recently?"

"Ah-ah-ah," Stiles says, wiggling a winger at hm. "Not until my conditions are met."

There's a long, tense moment where Stiles is 80-90% sure the alpha's going to say, 'fuck it,' ignore his conditions, and crush him into vampire-pulp. Then, it’s over, and Stiles watches as the alpha pops open the glass box and steps back with a grimace.

"Hey, don't even start about the smell," Stiles grumbles, lifting himself out of the box on shaky arms. He wasn't kidding about running on fumes. Hell, he's almost at fumes of fumes at this point. If the screaming, pissy voice in the back of his head means anything.

The alpha comments, "You smell worse than before," to which Stiles replies by flipping him the bird, and stumbling out of the case like a like a new-born baby deer. His legs aren't working much better than his arms, but he sure as hell isn't about to use AssholeWolf here to help him out. His choice is taken out of his hands pretty quickly, however, when the Alpha grabs him by the arm, and starts marching him out of the room.

"Hey—hey! Easy on the goods, man. I'm fragile, and bruise easily."

What he doesn't comment on is the fiery pain working its way up the curls and waves of the tattoos that cover both his arms. His little warning system doesn't like being touched by werewolves, which kind of sucks when there's nothing he can do about it.

"You still stay close to me, and out of the shadows," Hale snaps.

"Wha–what's in the shadows?"

"Don't bother pretending, we know your kind can travel through them." Hale's grip grows harder, and Stiles is practically being dragged down the hall at this point but, okay, since when could vampires 'travel' in shadows?

BLOOD.

Shit, quiet. Seriously, what is this about shadow travel? That's a thing? What?

BLOOD BLOODBLOOD FEED NOW FEED BITE RIP—Stiles lets out a groan that has more to do with the annoying hunger than the pain in his wrist or arms. He's going to need a clear head if he's going to bargain with the pack. Unfortunately, that's something of a luxury for a Vampire without a steady supply of blood, and one Stiles can't afford at the moment. He also, apparently, isn't going to be allowed clothes, either. He's usually okay with, say, a pair of shorts for swimming, but all his dangly bits are swinging around every time AssholeWolf drags him around another corner, and that's just not polite to anyone.

"You do remember that I made conditions, right?" he says. "Just trying to be nice, y'know. Make sure you get aaaaall the information you need."

Alpha Hale growls low in his chest, and yanks Stiles in front of him, successfully knocking the feet out from under him. Stiles goes down hard, only to be yanked up again and left to hang there by a tightly gripped wrist. It fucking hurts, but Hale doesn't seem to care one bit. In fact, if Stiles is reading that look in his eye correctly, he probably enjoys hurting him. Not surprising, considering the stories Stiles has heard about the Hale pack. More like a gang, they say. More like the human mafia, ruthless, and unnecessarily cruel. 

Those crazy eyes seem to get closer, and no amount of sagging against the grip on his wrist can get Stiles away from them. "Your... 'conditions' will be met when I feel like meeting them."

"Okay, t-then what's the point of letting me out of the box now, then?"

Hale smirks. "You know, I've heard a lot of stories about vampires over the years."

Uh oh,  _that_  doesn’t sound promising. 

"I've heard the usual, the ones everyone knows. The ones about sunlight—" Stiles snorts. ”—about silver, the counting curse, the silver ash tree, the holy water. I've heard these stories spun over and over again until everyone believes them, learns to trust them, never questions just where or who they came from."

Stiles tries to shrink back more, but the alpha keeps drawing him in closer, and closer until he can feel Hale's breath on his face.

The hunger tells him to eat him.

The fear tells him to roll on his back, and show him his belly. 

"You  _vampires_ —" he spits the word like poison on his tongue, "—and your clever little stories, your lies. Always one step ahead, always catching the humans off guard as they pull out the holy water and laughing when it fails. You have killed millions upon millions with simple words."

Stiles doesn't know what he's supposed to say to that. Because, yes, it's true, somewhere at some point, a vampire or two decided to make up a bunch of shit about their own kind and spread it around town. And, sure, that ended up securing their–ah–population better than the all the wars and tyrant vampire kings ever did. But he seriously has no idea what this has to do with him. He’s not that old, jesus.

"Okay?" he replies, frowning. "Uh, I'm pretty sure you guys have done that too. Unless the Argents are actually secretly made of silver?"

Stiles hears his wrist snap before he feels it. It's a dry, crackling sound that's almost drowned out by the alpha's roar that echoes through the hall and reverberates in his skull. The pain is sharp, a knife that cuts through the blood lust fogging up his mind. Stiles has a split second of clarity—

_ Red eyes. Anger. Personal. Something he said. Argents. _

_ Right wrist broken. Shattered. Won't heal without help. Grip loosened. _

__

_ Naked. Vulnerable. Easy to wound. _

__

_ Glass box was surrounded by lights. Why? Why? _

**Shadows**.

—before he acts. Crouching down, Stiles yanks his broken wrist out of Hale's weakened grip with only a tiny scream of pain, and quickly uses his bent knees to throw himself backwards. Into the shadows.

"Don't you  _dare_!" Alpha Hale snarls.

This better work, he thinks, squeezing his eyes tight and pushing with all his will.

Claws brush across his chest, and suddenly there's nothing at all.

 

* * *

 

Blood.

It's the first thing he senses when he can feel again, but it's not coming from him. John Doe bled out of him hours ago, and this—this is fresh.

And distinctly animal.

Stiles opens his eyes, and the noise that escapes him is ugly but relieved. Whatever mysterious vampire shadow magic Alpha Hale was referring to is real, and a life saver. The shadows sent to him to the deli down the street from his apartment, which is just amazing and all but Stiles suddenly has no thoughts in his brain except the scream of hunger.

Scampering across the floor, his bare feet sliding on cold linoleum, Stiles leaps clear over the counter to the back of the shop. There's a refrigerator, he’s seen it before. Stiles knows is filled with different meaty things, and containers of animal blood. He just needs one, really. He'll only take one.

"Hold it."

Stiles freezes, one hand on the handle of the fridge, eyes narrowing at the beam of the flashlight… that’s attached to the top of a shot gun. Ah, right. The owner of the deli must have paid someone to lay some detection spells around his shop. It makes sense, but Christ on a Biscuit Stiles hates them so much right now.

"I'm—uh... mm..." Stiles trails off, unable to find the words to explain the situation. He's breaking into deli in the middle of the night, dirty and naked, and clearly going after the blood. Maybe he can try the whole hemophiliac angle again?

The owner's flat, unimpressed expression tells him 'no'.

"You want blood?" he grunts, not lowering his gun an inch.

Stiles gives up, and nods.

"Got money?"

Where? Shoved between his butt cheeks?

Stiles shakes his head, and sputters out, "C-can pay. Tomorrow. P-Pay." 

"No can do. You pay, you eat."

"P-pay... need," Stiles wheezes past his descending fangs. He needs it. Blood. He needs... he can hear deli-man's heartbeat. Such a fat, juicy neck right there. Who needs pigs’ blood? Bitter, cold. Big fat human, little heart pumping away.

Stiles tilts his head to the side, the sharp movement startling the owner back a few steps.

"Oh no you don't. I got all sorts-a-things loaded in here that vamps don't like," he warns, aiming the gun at Stiles' face. "You get out of here. Come back when you have money."

Stiles hisses out a laugh, his head snapping the other way. Another flinch, and the trigger creaks as the deli-man's stubby finger curls just a little too tightly. Stiles wants—oh god, how he wants—but there's enough of Stiles left in him to push the vampire back down.

So, he runs.

It's horrible. His mind is in thirty places at once, the smells, the lights that burn and sparkle above him as he bolts down side roads and alleyways.He can smell every living thing, hear every heartbeat. People laughing two stories above him, awake, alive, warm rushing food.

At some point in his journey, he grabs a rat from a dumpster, a last ditch effort to save a human from his mindless hunger. If he has to, he'll eat the rat. If he has to. Maybe he can do something with magic. Magic is very helpful.

Very—ah, neighbors are home. Pet cat smells so good, happy cat. Bloody cat.

Stiles bares his teeth, and launches himself up the fire escape to his floor. Skulking past the dark windows of the empty apartment next door, Stiles tucks the terrified rat against his chest, and carefully smashes in his kitchen window with his already damaged hand. What's a little glass when the wrist is mangled?

“Ok, ok, ok, ok, ok, ok," he chants, stepping over the glass to turning the light on. His kitchen looks otherwise undisturbed, which is good. Very good. Now magic. Rat? Fuck, he needs his head clear.

Stiles eyes the rat. The rat, who is clearly much more intelligent than he is at the moment, bites his hand and starts squeaking to be let go this instant. That just won't do, he needs—the rat is emergency rat. He just needs to store it somewhere until he needs it. Scowling at his screeching little friend, Stiles starts yanking open cupboards to look for something to safely store the rat in.

Wait, he should probably feed it, right?

BLOOD BLOOD WARM WET RIP—What do rats eat? Trash. Dumpster. Probably anything.

Stiles glares up at the contents of his cupboards. It's mostly spicy snacks, things that give him a little taste of being human again, without providing much sustenance. The spice gives his undead tongue a nice kick. It might kick a rat to  _death_.

"Fuck. Fuck—fuck!” he yells at the Extreme Buffalo Ranch crackers he mindlessly pulled out of the cupboard, and throws them across the kitchen. The rat doesn't like that, and starts biting him again.

“Y-yeah, me too buddy."

After detaching the teeth from his hand, he finds a large, metal mixing bowl to tip upside down over the rat. It's not perfect, but it will have to do until Stiles can find a spell to fix this. There has to be one, right? Something to dull the hunger down until he can scrounge up enough cash for another pint of pig. Stiles crosses the room in a hurry, grabbing whatever book he finds first and flipping through it desperately.

Blocking magic.  _No thanks_.

Seven minutes of extra strength, but you die? No, not that either.

Fire balls? Cool, but he can't eat them.

The metal mixing bowl goes scuttling past his feet.

Longevity? In what context, seriously. Maybe the one he used for—

Someone's coming down the hallway.

Stiles freezes, ignoring the clang of angry-rat bumping into the counter, and focuses on the heartbeat drawing nearer. There's no reason someone should be on this floor, it's only him and the empty apartment next door. Unless—it has to be. The alpha.

Cursing under his breath, Stiles dives for the mixing bowl, sending it flying as he grabs the rat and pushes himself back into the far corner of his kitchen. He has seconds—he has nothing. No weapons, no defenses. A single rat is barely enough to get his thoughts in order, never mind fight an alpha werewolf. Plus, he's sort of grown attached to this rat.

He... he just. Stiles wants this to be over.

A hiccup escapes him as he lifts the rat to his mouth, and holds it there. The alpha is at his door. There's glass and Extreme Buffalo Ranch crackers all over his floor. He's crying and thinking,  _this is it_.

This is it.

The alpha stops in the doorway of his gloomy little kitchen, and for a second Stiles almost bites down on the rat. His last, miserable defense. He has to—he’ll die.

"I c-can't," he sobs, dropping the terrified animal to his chest and hugging it. Christ, he's hugging a dumpster rat and crying in front of one of the most infamous alphas on the planet. Maybe this is a good thing, after all. He’s the world’s most pathetic vampire.

"You can... you can k-kill me."  _Please_.

Alpha Hale hasn't moved yet, but there's something different about his stance. Oh, the claws are gone.

"P-please do it quickly," he whimpers, hoping that the claws will come back. If Hale wants to punish him for escaping... Stiles won't last long either way. He's too weak at this point. Too tired.

He doesn't even notice when the alpha moves closer, which is a bad sign considering he had to crunch through crackers and glass to approach Stiles' corner. He refuses to meet his eye when he hunkers down in front of him, smelling delicious and alive.

"What are you doing?"

Stiles flinches at the sound of his voice, and tries to hide behind his rat friend as much as possible.

"Stiles..."

"P-please just get it over with," he grits out, glaring at the floor rather than meeting his stupid alpha eyes.

"What are you  _doing_?" he asks again, reaching out and shoving Stiles' head back. Stiles snarls at him, letting the wolf see his long, sharp teeth. "Are you going to bite me?"

Stiles glares, and closes his mouth again.

"Alright... are you going to bite the rat?"

"No!"

"Then why is it here?"

Stiles glances down at his little buddy, surprised to find it looking pretty chill in his hands right now. God, his poor hands are covered in bites and cuts, that wrist has gone gray. Oh man, his chest looks even worse. Even without blood, the claws exposed his muscle and it’s nasty. Gross. Don't look.

"I was... eat," he manages to say, scowling at his lack of brain power. He's starting to fade now, long past the point of hunger-madness. This is how most vampires die, if they're not killed by someone else first. When they get tired of the whole forever thing, they choose to starve. No matter how painful and slow it is, they wait out the months—sometimes years—until they simply crumble into dust.

Stiles will be dust in, like, three days? He doesn't have enough blood stored up in him to last more than that, and the first stages of re-decomposition will be starting soon. His heart beat is probably already gone. Boo.

"Tell me if I'm understanding this correctly."

Oh, is that guy still here? Alpha Hale snaps a finger to get his attention. It sort of works.

"You ran all the way home,” Hale continues, “Stopped to grab a rat, and hid in here... planning to eat it? And now you’re not going to eat it, and you’re giving up?”

"Rat instead... of human," Stiles replies, his hands going limp around the rat. He's a cute rat, really. Healthy looking. Stiles will name it...

Name

He'll...

Stiles feels something brush against his face just as the darkness swallows him up, and oddly enough, it doesn’t terrify him in the least.


	3. Extreme Buffalo Nachos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles wakes up.

 

  
The vampire sighs.

  
Silence seems to grow heavily between them, leaving only the faint chatter of people on the streets below. Something has changed again, Danny can sense a sort of reluctance in the vampire's posture and he worries it means the end of his interview.

"Was—" he begins, only to be cut off by another, unnecessarily loud sigh from across the table. Clawed fingers appear from the shadows, tapping their way across the scuffed wood in front of him. Danny hates that the movement captivates him, hates that every smirk, every shift in weight or twist of fingers is almost hypnotic. It must be a vampire thing, because Danny feels the same sick-fascination that drives you to look at a terrible car crash. He doesn't _want_ to look, but he just can't pull himself away.

"I think I want to talk about something else for a moment," the vampire says, fingers tap-tapping away.

"You've left us at a bit of a cliff hanger."

"I don't care, I don't want to talk about it right now."

Danny leans back in his chair and studies the creature across from him, wondering if he should pause his recording until they get back on track. As reluctant to speak as the vampire seems, he's had no trouble telling fascinating tales so far. A little patience won't hurt, he decides.

And besides, he knows why he chose the vampire, and he knows why he was chosen. No one else has been this close to the Hale pack and survived, never mind given an exclusive interview with one of their most important members. Danny isn't stupid, there's something the pack _wants_ from him, something only he has to offer. Hopefully, it's not something he's unwilling to give.

After another tense silence, Danny taps a finger against his lips twice, and decides to take over the interview again. The vampire's reluctance is still obvious, but Danny is good at what he does. He can coax words out of the most difficult people. "What _do_ you want to talk about, then? Anything you want, i'm all ears."

After a slight hesitation, the vampire asks, "What do you know about the year 1616?"

Danny frowns, trying to think of something specific to that year. "Didn't Shakespeare die?"

The vampire snorts, "I suppose it's possible, I wasn't really paying attention that year."

"How could you miss something like that?"

"I think I was a little too preoccupied with the whole getting murdered and turned into a night creature to notice some vaguely popular playwright passing away," he sneers, claws sinking into the table with a distinct _crunch_. "Do _you_ know everyone died in every year of your life? Go on, impress me."

Danny shakes his head and swallows down the automatic whimper of fear that tries to claw its way from his throat. He's in danger—he's known that since he started following the man. It's only when claws and teeth come out that he remembers that it doesn't have to end quickly for him. That the vampire can and will take its sweet time with him, if so inclined.  
He can't help but feel a little stupid, as well. Of _course_ the vampire wouldn't know about Shakespeare's death, it's highly unlikely he would even want to remember everything that happened during his 'second life', never mind irrelevant events that didn't directly effect him. And 1616 was... that was...

"That was four hundred years ago," Danny realizes. "You were—you said you didn't remember your human life."

The vampire looks unapologetic. "I lied, a little bit."

Danny huffs.

"I don't recall every moment of my life, and I certainly don't remember anything about pointless people dying in their cottages in... wherever he lived. It wasn't as though I was _there_ , crying by his deathbed," he continues, clutching a hand to his chest in a mockery of anguish. Danny notices the claws are already gone again. He wants to ask about those, but now isn't the time. "I was in York, trying not to watch a priest be torn apart while my father goaded me to keep my eyes open."

Danny makes a small noise of surprise, unintentionally drawing the vampire's full attention back to him. His eyes are just shadows again, no flicker of anger lighting them up with an unnatural glow, no humor or life. His body seems to shrink under Danny's gaze, and more than once he sees those long, pale fingers twitch against his chest before he drops his hand back under the table. He looks... small. Not the same prideful creature he began the interview with, and not the ageless man Danny first thought he was.

He's so young. He's _too_ young.

A small part of Danny tries to throw walls around that thought, to silence the bells going off in his head. But it's too late, he's already made the connection and he's already choking on the horror of it.

Danny asks, his voice soft, "How old were you when you died?"

"I believe I was seventeen, which used to mean you were an adult," he replies, something nasty slipping into his voice. "Although I guess that didn't mean much, in the end. I was still a virgin, still young and dumb enough to believe that family meant everything regardless of how they treat you."

The vampire lets out a sharp laugh. "I remember working at the castle prison, which seriously is not something you can forget easily, trust me. I _feared_ blood, and my father thought it was amusing to make me clean up the cells after a fight broke out, or made sure I was in the courtyard for all the hangings, or 'accidentally' left a bread knife or two with the prisoner's lunch. I can't tell you how many times I had to fend of desperate men thinking my death was their chance for escape. And he _laughed_."

"That's... uh..." Danny tries to find an agreeable word, and fails. "Honestly, that's just fucking horrible."

"My father wasn't a nice man."

"He sounds like a complete asshole," Danny agrees, earning himself another snort from the vampire. He seems to relax, though, like Danny's disapproval of his father loosened something in his chest. "I take it you weren't too happy being forced to watch some guy get torn up."

The vampire lets out a laugh, short and bitter. "I wasn't happy, no. I threw up on my father's shoes, if I recall properly, and everything after that is a bit of a blur. I know I was hurt—probably the whole vomiting on shoes thing—and then I was on the street."

The vampire pauses, his expression going oddly blank.  
  
"You were turned in the middle of the day?" Danny prompts him.

"Yes—it seems really stupid, now, when I think about it," he mutters darkly. "Attacked in some alleyway in broad daylight by a vampire, and yet I completely convinced myself that vampires could only come out a night. Not that my 'master' thought to correct me, the bastard."

"So... uh... he just bit you and...?"

The claws come back to abuse the poor table once again. Clearly that's not a good subject, after all. "I've changed my mind, let's talk about werewolves again."

Danny tries not to let his frustration show, but something must tip the vampire off. He's smirking again.

"Fine," Danny sighs. "Where were we?"

"Well, remember when I said vampires can die slowly and horribly without blood?"

"Yes?"

"Well, that's where we were."

_____________

  
The first drop burns his tongue like acid, but the second sends the first signals through his body that _this isn't a hoax, it's time to wake up._

So Stiles does.

And he screams. A lot.

Because waking up _hurts_. His body's technically been dead for four hundred years while running on living creature's juices, so it really no surprise there's a few aches and pains upon revival. The way his mind wakes up, though, that's the worst. Stiles can handle the twitching limbs, the creak of his chest cavity filling with borrowed life once again. He can handle his dry, cracked lips stuttering under the steady stream of blood being poured into his mouth, and he can handle the prickly feeling of that blood finding its way back into his veins.

But the brain, waking up the brain is not the same as kick-starting some nerves and filling up some vessels. The brain _explodes_ into action again, throwing Stiles back into existence with every memory, every sensation, every emotion all there behind his eyes and on the tip of his tongue. So, yeah, there's some screaming. It's probably all super gross and Stiles is glad he doesn't have to witness the whole gory agony of it himself.

It takes a while for him to stop reliving things he wants to forget, and a while more for his body to catch up with the spark he's spent years cultivating again after his human-death. The magic is back at his finger tips, and Stiles almost smiles as he feels his heart stutter and begin beating again. Unfortunately, his tattoos flair up almost immediately afterward, making him groan more in annoyance than pain. Werewolves. It seems like he'll never be free of them.

"That's the first sound he's made that wasn't _awful,_ " a woman says.

"It wasn't that much better, Scott."

"I'll take it over blood-in-mouth screams any day."

"I can hear you, you know," Stiles rasps, refusing to open his eyes. He already knows where he is, and with whom. "When did you shut the lid?"

There's one of those slightly-guilty-because-we've-been-caught silences before Scott clears his throat. "When your skin started looking more skin-like... and you stopped screaming."

 Stiles manages a weak chuckle at that, and forces his eyes open. The werewolves gasp from somewhere outside his glass box, but Stiles isn't surprised. His eyes feel gross right now, which means they're probably doing that creepy, inky black thing he hates.

Scott breathes, " _Dude_..."

"Where's Pinky?"

"Who?"

"My rat."

"The rat you had in your hands when Derek brought you back?" Scott asks, sounding unsure. Stiles narrows his eyes at him, unhappy at how blurry the two figures look. His eyes should have come back faster than this, jeez. It hasn't even been that long... has it?

"How long was I gone?" he asks, rising up on his elbows. Something shifts on top of him, distracting him long enough to see a gray blanket thrown over him and taking up at least half the space in his prison-box. "Well, this is an upgrade."

"The rat ran off," the other wolf responds, flashing sharp teeth at him when he turns to glare at her. What was her name again? "We didn't know he was your precious pet. Derek said you were going to eat him."

"I told him I wasn't," Stiles mutters, shifting to his side so he can grab the blanket. It takes a few tries, but he manages to pull it around his shoulders without flashing them his junk. "How long was I gone?"

The blonde wolf shrugs, and Scott just stares at him.

"What?" he snaps, wishing they'd just go. If he has to be back in his brightly lit glass prison, he'd rather be alone this time. The joke's over, nothing about this is funny anymore.

Okay, so maybe there wasn't anything funny about it the first time, but Stiles is a hell of a lot more tired, achy, and pissed off now.

"Ooh, I think the wee baby bat is mad," the blonde coos, wiggling a few fingers at him through the glass. Stiles wants to bite those blood-red nails right off her fingers. "It's funny because he thinks he's hiding his feelings. Honey, you do know we can smell you, right?"

Stiles gives her a jerky shrug of his shoulders. "Honestly, I figured all you could smell is whatever blood you gave me and death."

"Dude," Scott replies, seriously. "You're in a glass box of emotion."

"I— _what_?" Stiles chokes, unable to stop the bubble of laughter that tumbles out of him. It's only a tiny bit manic, really. Just a smidge.

It takes him a few minutes to stop, and holy shit does he sound his age wheezing and croaking like that. By the time he's choked out his last guffaw, blondie wolf and Scott are looking considerably more uncomfortable than before. Which makes Stiles a little sad to see, considering they seem more at home with threatening people than laughing with them. That's all kinds of fucked up and _sad_. What is even going on with this pack?

Stiles clears his throat, feeling awkward now, and says, "Just so you know, we aren't friends just because you made a dated joke and made me laugh."

"It's not _that_ dated," Scott pouts, latching on to the wrong part of the sentence. Miss Blonde rolls her eyes at them, and stands up. Stiles follows her movements until he realizes he's looking straight up her incredibly short skirt, and then ducks his head back into his blanket. He may be 400 years old, but he'll never get used to these damn miniskirts.

"Well that's the most interesting thing he's done since he woke up," she sighs, making Stiles flinch at her bored tone. Seriously, what is wrong with these people? "You two have fun. I'll report his recovery to the Alpha."

Scott murmurs something to her as she leaves, her response a cackle that echoes throughout the room. Stiles pulls the blanket around him more, trying to hide his entire body under it. It's not fair that these people have seen more of him than most of his lovers have in the past. Not that he's had a ton of those, being kind of ancient and eternally awkward.

"So..." Scott begins, and _speaking_ of awkward. "Derek looked through your apartment."

Stiles snaps his head up, narrowing his eyes sharply. "Excuse me?"

"He needed to know more about you and you were kind of... dead? Deader?" Scott shrugs.

"So he decided it was cool to just look through my _private_ things?"

"I don't know, I guess? He says you're not what we thought, though, so I guess he liked what he found?"

Liked what he found?

 _Liked what he_ —? Stiles grits his teeth, biting back the urge to scream. Okay, so it's one thing to pilfer a through a dead guy's stuff if maybe you sort of need something. Stiles has done that more times than he can count, and as unsavory as each experience was, Stiles would not be here if he hadn't done it. Too many wars, too many dead soldiers, too many names listed on monuments. So, yeah, Stiles knows about snooping and stealing, but this isn't the same. The alpha knew he wasn't actually dead, and just went through his stuff? Why? What kind of a threat could he even be? He couldn't even eat a god damn _rat_.

"That's an invasion of privacy," he remarks, trying to keep his voice steady. He adds, "And decency," with a sneer.

Scott seems unfazed by his anger—surprise—and turns to look towards the hallway. Stiles follows his gaze, and jerks back when red eyes appear somewhere beyond the flood lights. Fuck him twice over, there's the snooping bastard now.

"I see the animal blood worked," Derek says, calmly stepping out of the shadows and stopping just on the edge of the room. "Peter had his doubts."

"That's sweet," Stiles snipes. He doesn't want to talk this alpha-asshole. He sees Scott shift and move away at the edge of his vision, and ignores it. It's not like the wolf is on his side just because he's a little more friendly than the rest of the Hale pack. Scott's the one who smelled the dead guy and turned him in, after all. Scott's the back-stabber.

"Have you completely revived?" the alpha asks, sounding skeptical.

"I'm not doing a strip tease for you, if that's what you're after."

"I meant your eyes, they're—"

"Dark and gross," Stiles grouses, glancing away from the werewolves. "I know, trust me, I've heard it a thousand times before. It should go away in an hour, tops."

There's a moment of silence that feels... oddly loud, making Stiles glance back up at the wolves. Scott seems to be attempting some sort of sign language with his face and eyes, but Derek is unmoved. He stops when he catches Stiles looking at him, and blushes. "Uh, I thought maybe we could let you—"

Derek snaps, "No, Scott."

"But he's kind of—"

" _No_."

"Erica even—"

"Scott," the alpha warns, his eyes finally flickering red. "Shut up."

The other werewolf bristles, even while his eyes flash gold and he takes a step back. Stiles admits to feeling a speck of pride in seeing a beta stand up to the scowl-faced alpha. You don't see that very often, especially not with a fierce pack like the Hales. Then again, maybe that's why they're so terrifying. Stubborn betas and super-intense-scary alpha.

Yeah, Stiles gets it now.

"—isn't a bad guy," Scott's still arguing, though he's three steps back from where he was originally standing. Derek's eyes are fully red now, and Stiles thinks he sees a hint of fang past his scowl.

"Actually," Stiles pipes up. "If you're keeping me hostage, or whatever, I think I'd rather stay in here."

Both of them turn to blink at him. Scott frowns, looking concerned. "Don't you want, like, your own room?"

"Scott—" Derek begins.

"No, Scott, I don't want a 'room'," Stiles says, ignoring the glare he receives for interrupting. "At least here I have one layer of protection against you guys, and I'll see you coming for a good thirty feet."

Scott's express grows pouty again. Derek just seems annoyed. "We aren't going to hurt you."

"Uh _huuuuh_."

"Deaton wants to see you," Derek explains, his expression going pinched with displeasure. "He needs you in 'perfect condition.'"

Stiles blanches, nearly smashing his head into the back of the glass. They couldn't mean—he's heard rumors of certain groups of _humans_ running tests on their supernatural captives, but a pack Druid? Weren't they all about peace and balance? How could torturing Stiles and leaving him to die balance anything?

Stiles feels his heart beat spike sharply, and looks down at his chest in confusion. Across the room, there's a gasp, and a quick shuffling of feet as both werewolves draw closer. It only serves to drive his heart rate higher, sending him scrambling to clutch at his chest and move away from them at the same time. He doesn't go far, of course, but the blanket successfully hides his face from them.

  
"He really does have a heartbeat. I thought... it was so faint, I thought maybe I was imagining it."

"No, I heard it back before I picked him up at the apartment."

Stiles shrinks down under the blanket, and tries to calm down. He feels like he's sixteen again, hiding under his straw-stuffed cot as his father smashed his way through the house. Even then, he knew he could never really hide from the monsters. His father always found him. Always.

"Hey, maybe we should move back?"

Someone grunts, and a second later Stiles hears them shift away from his glass case once again. He manages a hiccup of a breath—weird, he doesn't _need_ air last he checked—and risks a look out of his grungy blanket. Both werewolves are back by the lights again, their figures distorted by the brightness. Just knowing they aren't looming over him helps his heart settle on something less mouse, and more deer.

Derek clears his throat, and says, "We'll leave you alone, for now."

Stiles nods a little, and silently curses himself for feeling even remotely grateful to his kidnapers. The smallest show of decency shouldn't be applauded, Stiles, Jesus.

Still, he can't stifle that small flare of relief that pops up when the alpha keeps his word and leaves the room, tugging Scott along with him. It's not much— _really_ not much—but it might be something Stiles can work with. All he needs to do now is convince a pack of werewolves that this vampire is worth more to them alive.

How hard could that be?

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm currently going through and re-writing/editing this fic so chapters are being updated as of March 9th.


	4. Common Decency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles just wants a piece of spicy pork.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: slight panic attack, slightly uncomfortable situation, threats of torture, force feeding orange chicken.
> 
> I'm currently going through and re-writing/editing this fic so chapters are being updated as of March 9th.

 

 

 

 

Stiles can feel the moment the sun goes down, even with the surrounding klieg lights burning into his retinas. His senses really kick it up a notch when night falls, with sounds and smells reaching him from even greater distances than before. Usually, it comes as a relief to him—a chance to stretch beyond his more 'human' boundaries without, you know, eating people. It's unfortunate at the moment, though, because all he can sense are the wolves gathering and eating dinner without him.

 

Why should they get to sit around laughing and eating Chinese food while he's stuck in The Tupperware Container of Misery with nothing but a blanket for company? Why is he even a target of their hatred? He's eaten one guy in maybe a hundred years that's a drop in the bucket comparatively. It  _should_  make him their favorite vampire ever. They  _should_  be impressed he's had such good self-control and common sense. There were days, in the past, when he couldn't get blood, where his future of not-eating-people looked bleak. He'd struggle with the madness of it, force himself to stay locked in his room or be driven into the wild to avoid people as much as possible. He usually came back to himself with a deer carcass at his feet, but he doesn't think werewolves can talk when it comes to hunting cute little forest animals. 

 

The worst part? He could really go for some spicy pork right about now, and he can smell the scent of it drifting down the hallway like a siren song. Pigs blood as all well and good, but Stiles has other wants and needs. Stiles also has a feeling the pack isn't going to be all that accommodating, though. 

 

"Hello?" he calls out, wriggling his head out of his blanket cocoon and squinting into the bright lights. He hears the chewing and mumbling come to a stop, before someone grunts in irritation and pushes their chair back. Stiles does a little fist pump, and waits for whoever it is to appear. He doesn't expect or  _want_  it to be the alpha stomping through the door with his fierce-looking eyebrows, but that's who he gets. How lucky. 

 

"What?" Derek snaps. 

 

" _So_  sorry to interrupt your dinner," Stiles drawls, "but I was wondering if you could spare a little something for me, maybe?" 

 

The alpha purses his lips. "It's human food." 

 

"I'm aware." 

 

"You don't eat human food. You eat  _humans_." 

 

Stiles scoffs, "That's a hyperbole. I've  _eaten_  humans before, I generally eat pigs' blood, and sometimes Korean barbecue." 

 

The alpha tilts his head a little, his brows furrowing in confusion. "I did wonder about the snacks in your cupboards." 

 

"I'm going to sail past the whole 'invasion of privacy' aspect of that, and just say, 'yes'. I've been known to nibble." Stiles shrugs. "It doesn't do much for me, but I like the taste. We didn't have buffalo sauce when I was human. We had burnt, salt, and undercooked." 

 

Derek's face does something weird—like he just stepped in something fascinatingly gross—before he turns around and walks back out of the room without another word.

 

"Wha—hey!" Stiles calls out, giving his glass case a kick. "Come on!" 

 

He hears the soft murmur of voices, a bark of laughter that trails off sort of awkwardly, and another scrape of a chair moving. Pouting, Stiles leaves it as a lost cause. Clearly, these are RudeWolves who hate to share with their precious prisoner. Scott had him fooled him for a minute there, with the suggestion of a room for himself, cracking jokes, making friendly faces. But...  no. Scott called him a monster right to his face.

 

He can't forget that. He should _never_  forget that. 

 

Tucking himself into his blanket once again, Stiles goes back to trying to block out as much of the light as he can and imagining himself anywhere but here. At least he has a lot of memories to draw back on, dozens of travels to countries all around the world. He could be floating in the warm ocean of the Mediterranean, or camped out in snow of northern Canada. Hmm... hot tubs and warmed up blood were always a nice combination. 

 

"I wasn't aware vampires ate human food." 

 

Stiles jerks out of his day-dream to find that bald-Druid-man standing over his box with a clipboard, staring down at him blandly. 

 

"Good for you," Stiles snarks. 

 

Deaton jots something down, and studies him again. "I was under the impression it made vampires sick to consume it."  

 

"It can." 

 

"Then why do you eat it?" 

 

"It doesn't seem to bother me." 

 

"But it bothers most vampires?" 

 

Stiles narrows his eyes. "I don't know? It's not like we have a diet club where we talk about what we ate today." 

 

"Do you have bowel movements?" 

 

"Uh... no. I think it just sort of disintegrates inside somewhere."  _Like ash_ , he doesn't say. 

 

The man writes some more, his expression grim. Whatever is going on is not making him a happy camper. Not that Stiles really cares, as this is the same asshole who exposed him with the counting compulsion. Stiles is petty enough to help cultivate some level of misery for the guy.

 

"When speaking to our alpha, you referred to your time as human," Deaton says. "When was that?" 

 

"A long time ago." 

 

"You can't be one of the ancients, I would have heard of you." 

 

Rude.

 

"How do you know you haven't?" 

 

Deaton smirks. "'Stiles', was it? Not exactly Nosferatu."  

 

_Double_  rude.

 

Stiles pulls the blanket back over his face and hides like a child. Whatever. It's not like he has any other option in his stupid glass box.

 

"What do you want?" he hisses from his cocoon. "I just asked for a little snack, and it's not like you don't have enough food. Are you a pack of werewolves, or pigs?" 

 

"And how would you know how much food we have?" Deaton asks patently. 

 

"A little wolf told me." 

 

"How did you know we were eating? Did you hear it? Smell it?" 

 

Stiles scowls, and rips open the blanket again. "What does it matter? You're not sharing any with your  _prisoner_ , anyway." 

 

Deaton simply blinks slowly at him, and taps his pen against the clipboard. After a long pause, he writes another note, and crouches down next to Stiles' box. 

 

"I'd like to examine you," he says, "If that's alright." 

 

Stiles fights back the flinch, and holds his gaze. "And if I say 'no'?" 

 

"I insist." 

 

Of course he does. Damn it all, Stiles  _knew_  this was coming. The experiments, the torture. The alpha did say their Druid wanted him in good condition, probably to run fucking tests on him. He wonders if the man knows about his heart beat yet, and if he knows how that came to be. Stiles never told a soul about his Spark, not when he was alive, and certainly not after he became a vampire. It's not... normal. There's been no record of a vampire or even a turned werewolf keeping their Spark after they've changed. The closest thing he's ever found was an account from an ex-fae who left their realm to live with the humans, but that was a unique situation. Stiles hasn't exactly found his 'one true love', and the queen of the fae folk is kind of a bitch.

 

If this Druid figures out his true nature, who knows what the Hale pack will do to him. They might even turn him over to the humans and let them run their own 'tests'.

 

"No, I'd rather you didn't," says Stiles, remaining firm. 

 

"Really," Deaton replies, pulling out a silver chain out of nowhere, "I  _insist_." 

 

Stiles lets the flinch happen this time. 

 

* * *

 

"If they did such terrible things to you, why did you stay with the Hale pack?" Danny inquires the moment the vampire pauses. 

 

There's a snort, and the vampire flashes him a lopsided grin. "I never said they actually got to  _do_  any of the things I was worried about." 

 

"So, they didn't run tests on you." 

 

"Oh, no, they definitely did." The vampire shrugs. "They just weren't exactly terrible." 

 

Danny bites his lip, afraid to ask. The vampire has already proven to have a skewed view of what's terrible and what's not, and Danny isn't sure he actually wants to know what sort of tortures a man would put him through in the name of discovery. He's heard whispers of the government test sites, and even if he hadn't quite believed in vampires at the time, none of it was good. 

 

"You can ask," the vampire insists, still grinning. 

 

"What did they do?" 

 

"Oh, a little of this, a little of that..." 

 

 

* * *

 

 

They start by restraining him with some sort of enchanted, silver-lined cuffs, and a lot of chain. Normally, silver would give him a bit of a rash and a small urge to flee, but whatever the Druid has done to it makes it stick to his skin like burning glue. It keeps him where they want him, though. Which is seated on a wooden chair they've bolted to the floor. The floor is tiled, which is worrying. Nothing good happens in rooms like this. Stiles spots a drain on the floor below his feet, and almost gags with fear. This is not a fun room at  _all_.

 

"I think I'll start by granting your wish," Deaton says from across the room, before cracking open a styrofoam container and pulling out a piece of orange chicken with a gloved hand. 

 

Stiles... doesn't know what to think of that, he just shakes his head. He stopped being interested in food the second the Druid showed up. 

 

"I want to see the effect it has on you," the man says, approaching Stiles with the nugget of chicken held out in front of him. 

 

"I don't—I don't like chicken," Stiles stammers, trying to lean away from it and failing. They've got him stuck fast. 

 

Deaton stops, raising an eyebrow. 

 

"There's a reason we drink pig's blood, you know," Stiles grumbles, "We do have preferences, just like everyone else." 

 

"I assumed it did not matter much." 

 

Stiles grimaces, "Pigs are as close to human as we can get."

 

"So when you eat human food, you—"

 

"I prefer pork, when it's meat," Stiles confirms. 

 

Deaton seems to need a moment to think about this, before he continues forward with the dripping nugget anyway. Stiles tries, again, to lean his head away, but the chains keep him in place all too well. He keeps his mouth clamped shut, though, and glares balefully up at the Druid. 

 

"You said it wouldn't harm you." 

 

Stiles glances past Deaton's shoulder and finds the alpha standing there with a strange look on his face. He seems almost torn, like he can't quite decide if he likes this situation or not. 

 

Stiles risks opening his mouth, "Dude, everybody has food they don't like. You don't see me forcing it down  _your_  throat." 

 

Derek's lips twitch into a frown, and Deaton turns back to raise that stupid eyebrow at the alpha instead. 

 

"Do we have any pork left?" the alpha asks.

 

"I believe Peter ate it all," Deaton responds, sounding bemused. "Erica was protesting rather loudly after dinner." 

 

Derek looks at Stiles again, shrugs, and gestures for Deaton to get on with it. 

 

Fucking  _great_. 

 

It takes all his efforts not to bite down on Deaton's blue-gloved hands when he grabs Stiles' jaw and forces his mouth open. He should—he'd deserve it—but it would break down those walls he's carefully built back up after his recent slip-up. He can't afford to get sucked back into human blood, it changes you in not-so-good ways. So, he opens his mouth like a good little vampire, keeps his fangs hidden, and lets the bastard push a lumpy, gooey chunk of orange chicken into his mouth. 

 

It tastes like almost nothing. 

 

Oh, he can smell the orange in the sauce, feel the texture of the sauce-softened bread around the chicken, taste the smallest spark of spice from a piece of cyan pepper. But it's mostly his nose doing most of the work, his taste buds simply don't respond to food the same way as they used to. It makes for a pretty unpleasant moment of chewing and swallowing the tasteless mass before he opens his mouth to show it's gone, and glares harder at the Druid. 

 

Deaton asks, "How do you feel?" 

 

"Like I want to pop your eyeballs," Stiles replies cheerfully. 

 

"How does your stomach feel?" 

 

"Like nothing?" 

 

"No cramps? No bleeding?" 

 

"No." 

 

"Do you feel like regurgitating it?" 

 

"Only if I can get it on you," he sneers. 

 

The alpha makes a small coughing sound from behind Deaton, and moves around the circle of light to the work table. 

 

"I don't think food is a problem for him," he says, picking up a scalpel and studying it as if it's the most fascinating thing in the world. Stiles recognizes a fear tactic when he sees one. Recognition doesn't stop the fear. 

 

"Knives are a problem for me," he says, nervously watching him turn it over in his hand.

 

"I've seen your kind heal before," Derek replies, moving past Deaton with the blade held in front of him. 

 

Stiles twitches in an attempt to move away, and sputters, "It still  _hurts_!" 

 

Derek holds the blade over his arm. 

 

"And I-I'll need more blood a-after!" 

 

The alpha halts, blue-green eyes lifting to meet his gaze. There's another frown forming, both confusing and calming Stiles at the same time. He can't be that gung-ho about the stabbing if he's frowning, right? Right? 

 

"You need blood to heal?" 

 

"Uh, duh?" Stiles says. "That's kind of how it works? For everyone?" 

 

Derek backs away again, turning to share another look with Deaton. It doesn't last long, and before Stiles can ask what the hell they're planning next, Derek is right in front of him again. Stiles squeaks, his heart beating its way out of his chest and  _fuck_. 

 

Oh fuck. 

 

"Now that," Derek pokes his chest, "is the real mystery." 

 

Stiles hears Deaton hum in agreement, and tries not to hurl up whatever is left of the chicken they forced on him. The alpha must have told the Druid before they even revived him, meaning Deaton has already had time to investigate his heart beat. Meaning he might already  _know_. 

 

"It's—it's not important, really," he tries, forcing his mouth into a strained smile. 

 

Derek grins back. It's not friendly. 

 

"A vampire with a heartbeat?" he muses. "We aren't stupid, we know it's impossible." 

 

"C-clearly it isn't. Clearly you just haven't met the right vampire, yet." 

 

"Or, clearly, you're something  _different_ ," Deaton interrupts, turning to the alpha. "He said it started a few weeks ago, correct?" 

 

"That's what he claimed," Derek replies. 

 

Stiles stares at them both, and hates himself a little. How could he have let that slip? Yeah, he was terrified and locked in a box, but still. Seriously? Fucking fuck. 

 

"Do you have any contact with magic-users?" Deaton asks. 

 

Fuck. 

 

"N-not that I know of." 

 

"If not, then how...?" Deaton trails off, his eyes going wide. "No, it's impossible."

 

"There's a lot of impossible happening with this one," Derek grumbles. 

 

"There's never been a case of it happening before." 

 

Derek furrows his brow, not looking away from Stiles. "Of what happening?" 

 

"A vampire who uses magic." 

 

Stiles feels his heart stutter in his chest, and Derek's grin becomes sharper. "There it is, there's his secret." 

 

Stiles feels everything slipping, the fear overwhelming, his stupid heart betraying him more and more, the voice in the back of his head screaming for him to escape. Everything starts to go fuzzy as panic settles in. 

 

Derek's still smirking. 

 

The word of the day is 'fuck'. 

 

 

* * *

 

Danny leans back in his chair, studying the vampire. It's not unusual for things to come to light during an interview, it's their very nature to expose or draw out things people wouldn't normally share. But this secret is not something Danny would have ever expected, much less want to be exposed to him. He can tell it's a dangerous secret just by the way the vampire speaks its name. 

 

A Spark. Whatever that is. 

 

"So they knew you had magic from the beginning?" He prompts. 

 

"They had an idea," the vampire agrees, shrugging. "It wasn't exactly correct, but it was close enough to the truth for that not to matter. They had their war-prize, now they just needed to use it." 

 

"'War-prize'?" 

 

The vampire smiles, but his eyes remain dark and sad. "That's what I was to them. Nothing but a tool, a match to light the fire." 

 

"For what war?" Danny asks, confused. 

 

"The war on vampires. The age-old conflict that was always talked about was nothing more than a bit of back alley brawling and cat fights. Clannish, Cold War, posturing bullshit. The real war, that's the war they were about to start." 

 

 

 

 

                    

 

 


	5. Clemency

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets a break.

 

 

 

“The thing about supernatural critters is this: we don’t get along.” 

 

Danny snorts.

 

“You laugh,” the vampire says, “But it’s true. Stupidly true. Vampires and werewolves in particular? Yeah, we’re the worst. We loathe one another, to the point of sheer idiocy.” 

 

“So there’s always been a ‘war’?” Danny asks. 

 

“No, not really. Scuffles, sure. Bitch-fests, cat fights, pissing on trees, what have you. But not an all-out war.” 

 

Danny frowns, a little surprised to hear this. Surely two species that hate each other _that_ much would have a pretty bloody history. Something a little stronger than a scuffle here and there. 

 

The vampire smirks, and taps his cheek with a finger. “I know, it seems strange, but there’s this thing about vampires that tends to keep the fighting rather... limited.” 

 

“And what’s that?” 

 

“We’re like cats. We don’t really care enough to fight the werewolves over anything, and certainly not enough to go to war. Can you imagine trying to call cats to arms? They wouldn’t do it. They’d look up from their naps and be bored in an instant.” The vampire chuckles. “Really, there’s just never been a good enough reason—nothing interesting or important enough to go to war for.” 

 

“Are you saying that _you_ were important enough to go to war for?” 

 

The vampire throws his head back and roars with laughter. 

 

Danny tries not to be annoyed. 

 

 

* * *

 

 

His evening of torture ends earlier than he expects, and on a dull note. The werewolves can’t seem to meet his eye after Scott came bursting in, saw the deep gauges the cursed chains leave on Stiles’ wrists, and promptly flipped his shit. Derek might be the alpha, but he shrank a little when Scott threw out words like ‘torture’ and ‘hunters’. For all their talk of war, Stiles is finding that none of the wolves seem as blood-thirsty as the rumors said. 

 

Stiles, himself, is left with nothing more than mild, ashy indigestion, some burns from the chains, and a few slow healing wounds. It isn’t terrible, but it isn’t exactly a stay at a five star hotel, either. The worst part is the anticipation of what’s next—what horrible thing will they try out this time? Will they try to bite him, just to watch him ooze black blood until he shrivels up and dies? Will they pour silver down his throat just to see him choke on his melting insides? 

 

His imagination is probably the worst thing that’s happened to him so far. 

 

It doesn’t help that he’s back in his box again, left alone with his giant lamps and a pathetic blanket to hide in. The fabric is thin, but casts enough of a shadow for him to try getting out of there. The problem is, he can’t seem to do it again, no matter how hard he tries. Maybe it’s an enchantment by that damned Druid. Maybe he’s sealed off Stiles’ vampire powers—or worse, his Spark. 

 

Stiles shudders and curls up as small as he can manage, his knees banging into the sides of the glass coffin. He can’t imagine existing without his Spark again. It was hard enough surviving the first hundred years or so of being nothing but a dead meat suit, but he can’t imagine returning to the fucked up mental state that came with it. He needs his Spark, it’s everything that keeps him—mostly—human. 

 

Without it, Stiles was nothing but a predator, an unintelligent eating machine with no thoughts outside of his next meal. He stayed locked inside during the day, and haunted the streets by night. He ate men, women, and children—and god, did he enjoy their deaths. He enjoyed the freedom of it, the game. And for some years, Stiles basked in the lavish, stolen lifestyle of one with ultimate power. 

 

At least, that’s what he was _told_  he had. He didn’t think a lot during that period of his second life. It was kind of a shitty time for him. It wasn’t until he realized that the burning-by-daylight thing was a myth perpetrated by vampires that his brain started to wake up again. He started _thinking_ about what he was doing—about who he was doing it to. And with his brain, came his Spark again.

 

Stiles can never return to that. He refuses to allow them to strip him of this one thing. They can take all else, but not this. He will beg, if he has to. He doesn’t need pride; it’s never come easily to him, anyway. 

 

“Are you awake?” a voice asks from outside Stiles’ blanket cocoon. Stiles recognizes it as Scott. 

 

“I don’t really sleep,” he lies, popping his head out of his blanket. “I have constant vigilance.” 

 

“Okay, Mad Eye, that’s kind of creepy,” Scott remarks as he sits down on the floor by Stiles’ prison. “I mean, I thought maybe you were sleeping when Derek brought you back, but I guess you were kind of dead? Deader?” 

 

Stiles shrugs. “‘Deader’ works. I was less alive than I am now.”

 

“O-Kaay. But how alive are you now? Because we can all hear your heartbeat, dude, and everybody knows that vampires don’t have heartbeats.” 

 

Stiles scowls at the beta, and shimmies out of his blanket so he can rise up on an elbow. “Didn’t your Druid explain it to you?” 

 

“Deaton doesn’t really do... explaining.” 

 

“Your alpha, then.”

 

Scott looks sheepish. “Yeah, uh, him too.” 

 

Stiles stares at him. 

 

“Neither of them tell us a lot, to be honest,” Scott adds, rubbing at the back of his head. “I mean, we tend to figure things out on our own. Actually, Lydia does the figuring. She’s kind of the brains of the betas, really. Not that she’s a beta.” 

 

“What is she?” Stiles asks. 

 

“Um... I don’t know if I’m supposed to tell you.” 

 

“Who the hell am I going to tell?” Stiles snarks, gesturing around at all his nothing. “You guys took away my only friend.”

 

Scott looks confused. 

 

“The rat, Scott. I was referring to the rat.” 

 

“That was... your only friend?” 

 

Stiles opens his mouth to define sarcasm to the wolf, when he realizes it’s kind of horribly true. Sure, he had a job and chatted to the barista at the Starbucks near his apartment, but he didn’t actually have any friends. He can’t even count the butcher as a friend, especially not after their last meeting. Hell, he doesn’t even remember the last time he even tried to make friends with someone. It always goes badly; case in point. Scott McFuckingBetrayal. 

 

Scott’s expression goes from confused to pitying. “That’s really sad, dude.” 

 

“Well, it’s not like I’ve had a chance to make friends!” Stiles bursts out, waving a hand at Scott. “I have to be careful. Look what happened the one time I trusted someone!” 

 

Scott flinches back like he’s been hit, and quickly glances away. He looks like a friggen kicked puppy, which is ridiculous because he’s a giant, betraying betrayer who doesn’t deserve to make puppy faces at Stiles. 

 

“You _ate_ someone,” he whines. “What was I supposed to do? Ignore it?” 

 

“When it’s  _your_ fault I ate him in the first place, yeah,” Stiles snaps. 

 

Scott stands up abruptly, and turns to leave. Stiles wants to scoff at him, to wheedle at him for running away from his responsibilities, but Scott stops and turns back to look at him with the saddest look on his face. 

 

“I’m going to see if they’ll set you up in a room.” 

 

“Why?” Stiles blinks up at him, thrown. 

 

“Because I kind of owe you... for making you spill all your blood and... making you eat a guy.” 

 

Stiles blinks some more. Does he mean that? Like, _really_ really? Stiles wasn’t actually pushing all his blame on the guy, not really. He could have tried to go back to the butcher after he ran into Scott. He could have maybe fought the craving off a little longer, maybe made it to the butcher the day after his birthday. 

 

Then again, it’d already been too long since his last meal. Soooo, maybe not. 

 

“Um... okay, I guess?” he murmurs, unsure of what to say. He’s not about to thank the guy, not while he’s still being held captive. He’ll thank him if he sets Stiles free, but not a second sooner. 

 

Scott stares at him for a long moment, before nodding and turning to hurry out of the room. 

 

Stiles wonders how two werewolves could be so vastly different. Scott seems to genuinely care about his treatment, prisoner or not. The alpha couldn’t care less, unless he’s being compared to human hunters, apparently. Stiles is 90% sure Scott was the one who got him the blanket in his prison box. The blanket he’s probably not supposed to even have, thanks to the whole shadow-travel thing. 

 

The thought that maybe he wasn’t so wrong about Scott after all sends a bubble of warmth through Stiles’ chest. It’s odd, but it almost feels a little bit like hope. 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next time he looks up, there’s a man stalking his way past the lights in a distinctly wolffish way. Stiles doesn’t like the look of this one, especially not with the curiously hungry expression on his face as he stares down at him. He waits, hoping maybe this is all that will happen.

 

“Someone has pleaded your case to our precious alpha,” the man says. “And by pleaded, I mean pestered until Derek nearly clawed his ears off.” 

 

Stiles snorts, not at all surprised that that’s how Scott handled it. He seems like a pesterer. 

 

“I see you find our alpha’s suffering amusing.” 

 

“I’d say you seem to as well,” Stiles replies, rolling on his side to study the man better. The lights mess with his eyes, but he can see some resemblance between him and the alpha. A family member, then? An older brother, perhaps.

 

“Well, we can’t all be born with sticks up our rear ends,” the man muses, before crouching down to study Stiles even closer. Much too close. 

 

Stiles swallows nervously, and stares back with the most unflappable expression he can manage. He’s regretting the heartbeat, now. Before, he could simply stare for days with no stutter or blip to give his emotions away. And now that the cat is out of the bag, there’s no point in even pretending to be human anymore. Maybe he should spell it away again, leave his chest silent and dead. 

 

“You are a strange one.”

 

Stiles purses his lips a little and doesn’t reply. 

 

“The heartbeat is fascinating, really,” The man purrs, a crooked smile crossing his face. 

“I wonder just how fast it can go...” 

 

Stiles tries to ignore the way his heart drops to his stomach, but that predatory gaze seems to see right through him. He doesn’t even have a chance to reply before the werewolf reaches for the clasp on his box and yanks the top open. 

 

Stiles lashes out with his foot the second he can, but the wolf is faster. Clawed fingers curl around his throat and haul him out of the box and into the light. Stiles kicks out again, trying to catch the man in the groin and failing miserably.

 

“Let—letgo,” he gurgles, trying to speak around the hand crushing his larynx. It’s not as though he actually needs air to breath, but he can’t talk if he doesn’t have a voice box and oh god, this is how he dies isn’t it? Naked as the day he was born, head torn off by a crazy werewolf.  

 

“Do you even feel anything?” The wolf snarls, pulling Stiles closer to his face. Stiles sees nothing but bright, blue eyes and sharp teeth. “Do you even _know_ what your kind did to my family?” 

 

Stiles tries to shake his head, but the claws are digging deeper into his neck. Deeper and deeper until his precious blood begins to seep down his chest.

 

“ _Peter_.” 

 

The wolf stops snarling almost instantly, and turns to look at the alpha standing in the doorway without removing his claws.

 

“I’m just having a little fun, Derek.” 

 

“Don’t.” 

 

“Why ever not?” 

 

“We need him in one piece.” Derek replies flatly. 

 

Peter sighs dramatically, and unceremoniously drops Stiles to the floor. Scott comes scrambling in from behind his alpha, and hurries over to help Stiles up. His grip is strong, but nothing like the bruising hands of Peter. 

 

Wait... Peter? Peter fucking _Hale_? The crazy uncle of Derek Hale? Shit, Stiles knew he seemed familiar. 

 

“Y-you’re the werewolf that killed all those vampires,” he wheezes, rubbing at his throat as it slowly heals. 

 

Peter grins at him unapologetically. “Ah, you’ve heard of me. Good.”

 

Stiles doesn’t really know what he expects in response to that, so he just kind of... shrugs. Peter’s eyes narrow at him.

 

“Scott, bring him to his room,” Derek orders, never taking his eyes off his uncle. 

 

“Wait, I get a room?” Stiles asks, looking at Scott as he tries to shuffle him past Peter. 

 

“Uh, yeah,” Scott murmurs, glancing at his alpha as they move out of the room. Derek doesn’t look their way even once, but continues to stand there facing his uncle like he’s ready to go into battle. It’s kind of weird—actually, no, it’s not. Knowing what he knows about Peter Hale. Stiles doesn’t doubt he’d attack his own family, he’s kind of famous for being out-of-his-mind. He did kill the entire nest of vampires in Beacon Valley, after all.

 

Stiles is kind of really glad they’re leaving. 

 

“So what changed?” he asks Scott as they shuffle along the hallway. He’s trying to ignore the blood all down his front and maybe keep his dick covered, because, you know, his tiny sliver of pride, but it’s proving to be impossible to do while being carted along by a werewolf. 

 

“Now that you can’t shadow-jump, Derek said there’s no harm in keeping you in a room instead of the box,” Scott says, turning to smile at Stiles like that’s the best news in the world. 

 

“What do you mean ‘now that I can’t shadow-jump’?” he snaps. “What did that bastard do!?” 

 

“Oh, it’s just a small spell. Deaton says it’s mostly harmless, it just keeps you grounded.” 

 

“I knew he cast a spell on me,” Stiles mutters, “This better be a nice room. With some clothes... because, um, yeah.” 

 

Scott winces. “Sorry about that. I think Issac got some clothes for you.” 

 

“I want my own clothes.” 

 

“I can go back to your apartment and—“

 

“No, never mind,” Stiles sighs, shaking his head. “I want you guys to stay out of my apartment.” 

 

Stiles ignores Scott’s pout, and  focuses on where they’re going. Instead of the long hallway Derek had dragged him down last time, they seem to be heading upstairs. “Will I have windows?” 

 

“Uh, I don’t know,” Scott replies, shooting him an odd look. “Doesn’t sunlight bother you?”

 

“Dude, we met during the day. Did it look like it bothered me?”

 

“You were inside.”

 

“Inside a window-filled store, Scott. Inside a veritable greenhouse.”  

 

Scott shoots him a sheepish look, and pulls him along another long hallway once the reach the top of the stairs. This one is almost all doors, each one with a strange rock embedded in the center. Stiles tries to get a better look at them, but keeps getting yanked along by Scott’s firm grip on his arm. They finally come to a stop in front of a red door with a black stone on it, only to have the thing swing open before Stiles could study the stone. 

 

“Great,” the wolf behind the door sneers. “It’s here.” 

 

Scott hisses something at him, and tries to wave him out of the way. Whoever it is just smirks, and stands there with their arms crossed. 

 

“What? Want me to move out of the way of the monster?” 

 

“Issac!” Scott sputters. “Stop it.” 

 

“Not all of us want to make friends, _Scott_.” 

 

Stiles takes a step back as Issac moves towards him. There’s something vulnerable in his eyes, for all his sneering. He seems almost scared of Stiles, which is just... silly. He’s a naked, weak vampire. Not a lot to be scared of at the moment. Get Stiles some clothes and some blood, then maybe they can talk. 

 

Stiles steps out of his way as he passes, but doesn’t fail to note the way he gives him a wide berth. 

 

“Uh... okay,” he muses, watching the werewolf skulk away from them. “Nice to meet you, I guess.” 

 

“That’s Issac,” Scott says as he heads into the room ahead of him. “He hates vampires almost as much as Peter and Derek do.” 

 

“Uh, I mean, I know we’re all _supposed_ to hate each other for whatever reason, but—“ 

 

“He has a good reason,” Scott interrupts, shaking his head. “He... just leave it. I doubt you’ll meet him again, anyway.” 

 

Stiles is curious, as always, but not enough to force the issue. Besides, the T-shirt and jeans set on top of the bed are much more interesting at the moment. 

 

“Clothes!” he cheers, rushing over and plucking them up. “And they’re not terrible!” 

 

“Dude, it’s just clothes,” Scott snorts. 

 

Stiles glares over his shoulder. “You get locked into a glass box with nothing on and then tell me again how they’re _just_ clothes.”

 

Scott puts his hands up and backs away, shaking his head. Stiles continues to glare until he turns away, and slips into the jeans as quickly as possible. They didn’t give him any underwear, but he figures he’ll survive going commando. 

 

“These fit pretty well,” he comments as he slips the shirt over his head and tugs it down. They’re a little big, especially around his thighs and chest, but comfortable enough. “Whose clothes are these?” 

 

“Um, they’re Derek’s, I think.” 

 

Stiles feels his heart stutter, and moves to yank the T-shirt back over his head. 

 

“Whoa, stop that!” Scott yelps, swatting at his arms. “It’s no big deal.” 

 

“I don’t want to wear your _alpha’s_ clothes!” 

 

“He needed to be able to find you,” Scott explains. “This was the easiest way, since you don’t really have a scent.” 

 

Stiles blinks, and lifts an arm up to sniff himself. “I don’t? I always figured I smelled like blood.” 

 

Scott wrinkles his nose, and takes a step back. “Well, you do when it’s spilled all over you like that, but normally, no. You kind of just smell like... old dust or something.” 

 

“Old dust.” 

 

“I don’t know how to describe it!” 

 

Snickering, Stiles looks down at the soft, gray T-shirt he’s wearing and tries to get a whiff of the alpha. He smells the blood from his neck, like Scott said, but hints of something else. Something like warm earth and trees. Stiles kind of... likes it. 

 

“Can you smell Derek?” Scott asks, confused. “I didn’t know you guys could scent as well as we could.” 

 

Stiles stops sniffing, his cheeks tinting pink. “We can smell better than a human, but not as good as werewolves. You guys kind of have the monopoly on sensitive noses.” 

 

“I guess,” Scott chuckles, stuffing his hands into his pockets and shuffling his feet shyly. “I’m not that good at picking out scents. I mean, I can tell you smell like my alpha a little, but other than that I can’t really tell you anything about it.” 

 

So Scott can’t pick up the trees in his alpha’s scent? You’d think he’d be well versed in scent tracking, most werewolves are. Unless...

 

“Wait, are you a bitten wolf?” Stiles asks.

 

Scott shuffles his feet more. “Um, yeah.” 

 

That explains a lot. 

 

* * *

 

“Wait, what does that explain?” Danny interrupts. 

 

The vampire narrows his eyes at him for a long moment before he speaks. “There are a lot of differences between a bitten and a born wolf. Primarily differences in skills such as sent tracking and controlling their shift. It’s a matter of time spent, more than an issue of inherent talents, I believe.” 

 

“So, a bitten wolf can be just as good at these things if they practice?” 

 

“I’ve found some skills come easier than others, but yes, they can become equal to a born wolf in many ways.” 

 

“But not all?” Danny asks, curious at the vampire’s wording. 

 

He shakes his head. “No, not all.” 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Scott leaves him in the room and closes the door behind him. Stiles doesn’t even bother to check it, he knows he’s locked in. Those stones are clearly some sort of warding system set in place by that damned Druid. Still, the room is marginally better than the glass prison. 

 

Okay, that’s a lie. It’s loads better. 

 

For one thing, there’s a bed that Stiles tackles the moment Scott leaves. It’s not as soft as his bed at home, but it’s softer than glass and a ratty blanket. For another thing, there’s a small, barred window just above his head. Stiles isn’t a sun-creature by nature, but it’s still nice to see the sky again after so many days with nothing but klieg lights.

 

Stiles finds himself relaxing almost immediately, and turns over on his stomach to press his face into the pillow. He knows he’s not exactly safe yet. A room isn’t freedom—he’s still locked away in the wolf’s den. But even the smallest improvement of his living conditions is better than nothing. Not to mention the fact that Scott seems to be firmly on his side, which is something he can use in the future. 

 

If he survives that long. 

 

Stiles closes his eyes, and ignores the small voice at the back of his mind reminding him that he could still be tortured at any moment. He’s comfortable for the first time in days, surrounded by soft sunlight and that woodsy scent. It doesn’t take long for him to drift off to sleep for the first time since the werewolves fed him.


End file.
